


Regenerate

by doesnotloveyou



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Incredible Hulk (2008), X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Action, Angst, Domestic Avengers, Epic, Family, Gen, High School, Hurt/Comfort, Logan being a dad, Mutation, PTSD, Teenagers, anger issues, coming of age in a world full of superheroes, latina, not all characters show up right away jsyk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-26 23:21:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 87
Words: 289,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doesnotloveyou/pseuds/doesnotloveyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the dead of winter, a mutant child escapes the underground testing facility at Alkali Lake. Decades later, she returns with a lifetime on her shoulders seeking closure, only to reunite with the man who helped her escape.</p><p>Plagued by painful flashbacks of her turbulent past, and far older than she appears, she distracts herself by expanding her mutant abilities and erasing the person she used to be. With the help of some superpowered mentors, she'll rebuild herself from the ground up in a world about to be changed forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> FYI: A line break means the POV is switching from first to third person or vice versa.

            _Alkali Lake Industrial Complex, 1985_

 

            Lake water swills around my ankles as I back away from the door. A frenzied animal rages down the hall, heavy claws raking every surface. With nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, I stand still against the far wall and hold my breath. The door shudders. Groaning open from its hinges, it swings into the wall, bolts scattering. Light and smell billow into the room, burning my lungs and eyes from all of it at once.

            A man staggers in- not an animal- hits his foot on the door, and begins striking it again and again. Steam rises from him, and the red light in the hallway shines off the training helmet and his metal claws. With the helmet on he cannot see or hear, but he can still smell. There’s blood on his legs and the helmet wires are ripped. This is not a test.

            When he stops attacking the door and is only breathing hard, I expand from my corner and tiptoe toward him to gently nudge his knees. He growls, raising his clawed hand as he backs up. I wait before touching his knees again, pressing harder this time. He stands still. He kneels. My heart shakes my ribs with its beating.

            The helmet is heavier than I remember, and when I lift it off I lose my grip and it splashes into the water. The man takes a deep breath through his nose and stares at me like he’s not sure I’m a thing he can eat, but he might still try. His arm muscles are tight because of the claws that grow from between his fingers. Maybe they go back in like cats’ do. I look at his eyes to hold him still while I feel his arm.

            _Snakt._

            I jump. Pressing on the inside of his arm made the claws retract. I check, but there are no cuts on his hands and no places for claws. I press on his other arm too, but this time I feel for the cuts in case I missed them before. The man shivers and backs away from me.

            I remember I might need to run.

            He holds his hand in the light- trembling- and winces as the claws remerge. I can see how they come through his skin in such a wrong way, and press on his arm fast. They retract, and the torn skin folds back into place. Where the blood is on his legs there are no cuts either.

            I look down at my legs where the cuts have scabbed over and the bruises have moved into my feet, and touch his hands again. My legs are hurt, but his aren’t and that’s better than anything I can do. I concentrate hard, stare at my knees, and clench my toes. The scabs and bruises disappear.

            I smile at him. He looks afraid.

            Here comes the stamping of feet and rattling gear. We look at each other, surprised that the other can hear what is still so far away. He points to the crumpled door.

            “Get under it.” Then he leaves.

            I step right out after him, eyes slitted to the light, and walk to the other end of the hall. He whispers hard at me to go back in the room, but I’m already walking and am never going back in that room. Besides, they do not know yet that I am out of it.

            When I know the guards are about to come around the corner and see me, I stand in the middle of the hallway and disappear. The red lights are not strong enough to see me good, so I wait until they are close to reappear.

            They stop so fast it’s funny, but I do not smile.

            Gunfire ricochets back where my room is, and one of the guards looking at me says a swear. All the guns aim at me like dog noses through a fence. Then, from my room, there is screaming. Scared, I try to follow them as they retreat. Even when the screaming stops and they are gone, I keep following.

            Someone grabs me by the arm, and I hiss and bury my claws in their hand. My friend lets go fast and I jump away.

            “What was that?” he demands.

            I hide my hands behind my back.

            “Show me now.”

            I show him my normal hands.

            “Don’t screw around, you know what I mean.”

            Ready to run again, I show him my claws. He inspects them closely. “Did you have those before you got here?”

            I nod and make my hands look human again.

            “Why don’t you talk? Don’t you know how?”

            “I can talk.”

            “Alright then.” He puts out his hand. “Let’s go.”

            I squeeze his hand and aim him the right way. He didn’t expect me to lead, so I have to pull a little until he follows.

            The vault slams shut far away and all the lights go out. No, no I’m not staying in the dark. I pull him into walking faster. I know this place, I’ll find the door. I am not going to stay here for them. I am not going to stay for anybody.

* * *

 

            A scrawny kid is leading him through black hallways that taste of the tomb. He can't see his hand in front of his face, but she hasn't run them into a wall yet. In the red lights he got a look at her; damp hair falling past her waist, narrow shoulders with bird-like bones, and her eyes two empty saucers in a hungry face.   

            He ghosts his hand along the wall, retracing the trail of destruction he’s caused; long, three-furrowed gashes in the walls, and cell doors hanging off hinges as he tried each on for an escape route. None of _these_ were occupied. He tries to sniff out the direction the soldiers went in, but the jackboots have been down every hall twice already. The only sounds of life are their own.

            Finally, she stops at a vault door with an emergency light gleaming above it. She looks at him pointedly. He raises an eyebrow, and she raises his hand and shakes it. Afraid his claws will release, he drops her hand quickly. Oh.

            Once he’s exposed the mechanism the kid unlocks the door easily and helps him retract his claws again. Together, they push the vault open from the inside and her toothpick body squeezes through the lit gap without him. Not daylight. More concrete.

            “There’s another door that leads outside,” she says knowingly.

            A low moan emulates from somewhere. He finds he preferred silence. “You know about this door how?”

            No reply, just bare feet padding over the cold concrete. More moans and snarls come from the cells they pass, but she ignores them. He curses and nearly trips over her when she stops abruptly and inclines her head at a subtle _click_.

            Instantly she’s off, tearing down the hall faster than those spindly legs should be able to carry her. He stays on her heels, even as cell doors slam open and the gunfire begins. The hallway shrinks around them, slides upward. He can’t make her out anymore, can’t even hear her footsteps over the echoing of the guards’. They’re gaining and if the exit is up ahead she’s going to need time. He stops and turns to face the oncoming fray.

            White light exposes the tunnel, glances off the damp walls, and cleans the faces of the men crushing toward him. He turns, sees her outlined figure in the doorway, stark against a backdrop of snow.

            Bullets spray.

            She yelps and drops to the ground.

            Blinded by blood and rage, he roars and turns into the metal downpour. The soldiers at his fore do not disassemble fast enough, and even the deserters he lurches after. When all he sees are backs, he takes his chance to run for the body in the doorway.

            It’s her shoulder, in the bone, bleeding out whatever’s left of her. Daylight shows him a child dead before the bullet even hit her; emaciated, anemic. The two stare at each other, panting. Then her gaze falters, her breathing stalls, and her little mouth hangs open.

            Dazed, he staggers out into the unfamiliar sunlight, squinting. His rage has left him drained and mindless. But he knows freedom. He’s escaped once and they brought him back, but this will be the last time. As he crashes into the forest, putting distance between himself and hell, the door closes quietly behind him.

* * *

 

            The man who heals believed my dead trick. I am sticky with blood, my clothes red, my hair stiff; the bullet pushing its way out was worse than a nightmare, and I tried to cry when pieces of bone did not fit right; but, now I’m fine. My heart is beating fast and heavy.

            I start unlocking the cells of people I know, people who’ve talked to me, shown me their tricks, and have pushed me at open doors before. I do not open strange cells. I do not let out monsters. But they hear our noise and start banging on their doors, and freed people start opening these doors. I yell at them to stop, I yell at them to run, run for the door I opened, run for all the doors. No one hears me.

            The soldiers, who are never really gone just bad at everything but killing, block my path at one end of the wide hall. The fork at the other end where left leads to the exit, is owned by monsters and a clogging of panicked others. Choose.

            Turning invisible, I run between the oncoming guards before the shooting starts, dancing to avoid their mean boots. They feel me push past them and try to grab, but the monsters shriek and they have to forget me.

            Shooting does not end the problem, and the escaped ones bleed into the rest of the place; into the vents, up and down stairs, and some run back into cells to hide. I can’t do that, so I run up, avoiding lifts and sticking to stairs. The guards in one stairwell start screaming, so I run into a closed room to hide, covering my ears.

            That’s when I find the explosives.

            I wait until it’s quiet again, but as soon as I look out I have to throw up, and since there’s nothing in me my throat and stomach only burn. Eyes half closed, nostrils pinched, I tiptoe out to a dead guard with a coat that’s not too torn and try to take it off. He’s heavy, so I try harder, rolling him down a step and pretending I can’t hear the sounds his body makes. When the coat finally comes off, matchbooks fall out of the pockets. I stuff them back in and hurry into the munitions room. Every bit of wire and plastic, every grenade I hide in my coat will not be enough for what I have to do. Not anything compared to the crates of smooth cylinders nestled in straw like good eggs.   

            I’m almost to the surface when the first one goes off. Falling, I bruise my chin on the floor and my bones shake. Moving faster I only fall harder when the second one goes off and tiny rocks bounce to one side of the hallway. When the third goes off, doors in the first floor hallway swing open and crack their windows against the wall. Something big falls in a room and a folder slides out scattering papers across the floor.

            By the fifth, closest explosion the alarms have stopped altogether, and I don’t hear anything below me. Smoke stretches lazily along the ceiling. The floor is covered with folders and papers that have lots of names and pictures on them. I dig until I find mine, and tuck it into the lining of my coat. A pipe in the hall bursts, spraying stinky gasoline over the papered floor. I try to tug the clip out of the grenade, but it hurts my finger so I just throw it into the paper room and yell at it.

            _“You.”_

            I look up, see the doctor at the end of the hall, and moan. I’m too tired to run or to fight, and my stomach hurts more than ever. He rushes at me, his eyes harder and hotter behind his crooked glasses than ever. His hands are only for hurting, and I bet they are good at killing too. I hate this man, I hate him, he makes me bite my tongue so hard it bleeds, it bleeds because I can’t cry, because if I cry-

            I hide my fingers in my pockets. The smooth paper of the matchbooks rubs against my skin.

            The exit is behind me, but he’s coming closer and the matches are taking too long to light. His talons are reaching for my head when there’s a _snap_ that scares me, and I drop the match. Everything turns to fire.

                       

            The snow feels good on my skin until I wish I’d stolen the soldier’s boots as well. His coat is heavy and longer than my knees. There’s room in one sleeve for both legs, and that would be nice to do right now, but instead I have to run. I pressed snow to my eye when I left, and it came back with a dark spot from where the doctor hit me. I check again now, but it doesn’t hurt and I can’t feel a cut. I eat the snow instead.

            The explosions continue as I scrape and slide up the sharp, icy hill. The moon is half full and high up there, trying her best to light my way to the trees, and saying how much she missed me. I know by the sound of each explosion how close they are getting to the munitions room.

            I make it to the first tree and lean behind her to catch my breath. I climb through the snow from tree to tree, bruising my feet on hidden rocks, till I make it to the top. There I lie down on my belly in the frozen needles. The ground is warm once my breath melts it, the coat is cozy, and my skin feels hot. I close my eyes.

            The fire has found the room. I cover my head with the coat as everything flashes orange. My ears ring as I trip over my feet and try to run in the black forest. I bounce off trees and trip over branches in the snow, but keep going. I run across footprints going every way, and start seeing lumps in the darkness, smell the dirty hallways on them, all the people who decided just to sleep in the pine needles and wait until morning. Death nearly tricked me again so I run harder. There’s a breeze and I rush into it even though my face stings and my lungs are ice. The breeze stops, but I can hear again and see a small light up ahead.

            Everything is silent. The trees clear and I nearly run right into it. I rub my eyes and shake my head because I’ve seen too much tonight for this to be real, and what if I’m actually still asleep in those pine needles? How do I wake up?

            It’s a circle in the air, gold and sparking like a flat explosion. It gets smaller, then bigger, then small again. Afraid to go near it, but feeling warm from it, I look at the hollow center and see there is a place on the other side, a place not this place.

            I look around me. There’s no one watching besides the billow of black smoke choking my moon. Down the hill the hunt is beginning; voices shouting and vehicles revving. The circle shrinks almost to disappearing and I jump forward with a noise. The circle grows outward again, the sparking edge touching the ground without melting the snow. I hop from foot to foot, breath into the cuffs of the sleeves, and jump through.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> X-Men content only from the films X-Men and X2: X-Men United. I let Jean Grey survive the events of X2, but that's the only Universe Alteration I've plainly made.

            _20 Years Later_

            The rock hits the chain-link fence with a rattle and smacks back into the stiff mud. After a minute I stop listening for an alarm and confirm the place to be completely abandoned. I approached with trepidation, unsure if they’d still be here and still want to kill me. My memory of this place has faded along with other things I never thought I’d forget. I naively assumed half a century had passed here as well, yet not even a full quarter has gone by.

            Seeing myself in the mirror of the lake, it’s apparent how little I’ve aged. It was accepted in my old habitation that I was an anomaly, but this planet is a bit more innocent. Walking around the water, I calculate how cold it would be now, and how long someone would have to stand in it before hypothermia set in. Swim out to the middle, maybe not even that far, and one could just sink.

            Grinding my heel into the frozen dirt, I pivot to face the heartbeat that has somehow snuck up behind me. A man stands staring at me with a disturbed expression. I hold my ground, refusing him the chance to chase me.

            “Do I know you?” he asks.

            I don’t reply, legs itching to get away. He tilts his head back, raises an eyebrow then seems to change his mind. The cigar that’s been smoldering away in his left hand goes back between his lips as he walks on by, considerately giving me a wide berth. I keep an eye on him as he goes, sniffing to catch his scent, and am startled when he does the same. We snap a look at each other.

            “Well,” he says gruffly, “I definitely know _you_.”

            I clench my jaw and try to scrutinize his features for anything familiar; the glare in his eyes, the scruff of his hair, the veins in his hands- Hands. He catches me looking.

            The sound of them slices through the air. I can’t suppress how relieved I am that it’s him, even though I can’t understand it. He sniffs. “And yours?”

            I ball up my hands.

            He retracts his claws. “How old are you?”

            “How old are you?” I counter since he hasn’t aged much either. He narrows his eyes and I narrow mine right back.

            “You ever find your folks?”

            I take another step back.

            “Where did you come from?”

            “I don’t know,” I say.

            He furrows his brow. “How long were you there?”

            I suck in my lower lip, tired of answering.

            He leans his head back again- the matte gray snow clouds filling his eyes- and takes a drag on the cigar, momentarily ignoring me. “You eaten?”          

            My stomach begs me to say no, and my mind is as unreliable as anything. I shake my head, and he looks me over again like he’s still not sure what he’s getting into.

                       

            He watches me curiously as I eat. “I never got your name.”

            We’re in a diner by the highway that smells like cleaning products and ketchup. I eat more politely. “Haven’t got one.”

            “No kidding? What have people been calling you then?”

            “Is that important?”

            He raises an eyebrow and takes another drink. The alcohol bites my senses like vinegar. “So, you don’t have a name. I’m going to need something to call you.”

            “Come up with one then.” I lick each finger for traces of grease. “I don’t really care what you call me.”

            “I’m no good at coming up with names.” He pauses. “What was the last one you went by?”

            I shake my head. “I don’t want that one.”

            With a dinner roll, he wipes up the last of the gravy on his plate. “Where’ve you been all this time?”

            “None of your business.”

            “Listen, kid, I thought you were dead. If you’ve been around this whole time-”

            “I traveled.” This knife is too dull to steal. “Got away from here.”

            “Then why are you back?”

            There’s no clear, easy answer to that- nothing that won’t alarm him further. The hairs rise on the back of my neck. “I had no place left.” 

            The lines in his face smooth out making him appear younger.

            “What?”

            Terrifyingly, he smiles. “I know a place.”

           

            The long walk up the drive was worth it. The structure isn’t bawdy, there’s no glimmer of modern architecture claiming to be better than its build. It’s old grandeur, strong yet gentle with its smooth stone, blunt turrets, and coat of ivy armor. The aspens and maples guarding the yards are strong and old as well. Small flower gardens dapple the grounds in bright, thriving clusters, the work of someone with soft, positive hands who doesn’t truly understand the beauty of this place, but it’s clearly dear to them.  

            I didn’t follow him directly, choosing to continue my own travels for a while longer. He left without me and doesn’t know I’ve finally arrived. Consequently, I’m not sure whether to knock or just walk in. It’s a school pretending to be a private home, or a private home pretending to be a school. Either way it’s disconcerting, and the intimidating front door doesn’t help.

             “Hey.”

             I look up. I’d sat down on the bottom step to mull this over, but now there’s a young, blond man standing in the yard.

             “Are you supposed to be out here?” He tilts his head forward with eyebrows raised.

             Should I bother telling him I don’t go to school here? I could just leave, the man and the mansion hardly matter to me, but as the thought flits through my mind my entire being practically solidifies on this step.

            Bobby, the blond man who looks closer to seventeen than any adult age, escorts me to a side door. We walk down a wood paneled hallway graced with Victorian end-tables and paper lamps, a mix just as appropriate as the outer appearance of this place. He walks over to a door I wouldn’t have noticed right away, and knocks before opening it and popping his head in. “We’ve got a new student.”

            I’m startled by how casually he says it as though it’s every day he finds a strange teenager sitting on the front steps.

            “Send her in,” comes a woman’s smooth voice. How does she know my gender? Bobby opens the door wide and nods at me to go in. Dr. Grey is kind. “It’s nice to meet you…?”

            Suffer introductions. I look around the room for a temporary name and see an insignia on a book jacket. “Ace.”

            She doesn’t regard it as a strange name, so I can work with it for now. “Nice to meet you, Ace. So, you’re a mutant?” I must look startled, for she reassures. “It’s alright, we all are. You’re not alone.”

            I note the box of tissues on her desk and wonder how many lonely kids have needed them after being told something like that. Dr. Grey seems to grasp my passivity and adjusts her attitude. “Where are you from?”

            That one is harder to summon than my name. I’m from so many places. When I request that she clarify so I can construct a better lie she asks, “Well, where were you living before you came here?”

            Another halt. I can’t tell her _that_. I try to remember the place on my file at the facility, but nothing’s coming to me. Let’s skip past that question altogether. “I met a man who knew about this place, said he lived here and that I should come look at it.”

            Her brows jump, but she crosses her arms. She’s onto me. “Oh, did he say his name?”

            I open my mouth, but my mind notices too late that I never asked. “Wolverine?”

            “ _Logan?_ Where did you meet- Did he- Are you from Canada?” she guesses.

            We seem to be getting somewhere now. “Does Logan…smoke cigars?”

            “Yes.”

            “Is he here?”

            “Not at the moment, but he should be here around dinnertime, at six.”

            I glance at the clock on the wall. Ten to five. “What do I have to do in order to stay for dinner?”

            She smiles, a momentary distraction from the burning in her eyes. “You’re free to stay as long as you like.”

 

            “You made it, eh?” rumbles a familiar voice. He returned an hour earlier than Dr. Grey predicted with a six pack of beer tucked under one arm. Jean, as he calls Dr. Grey, has left him in charge of me while she speaks with the headmaster.

            “You definitely take your time.” He shifts the alcohol to his other arm. “Been here long?”

            I shake my head and smile carefully. This works on him, playing up my youth. Such an old trick.

            “Ace, the Professor will see you now,” announces Jean warmly. “He wants you there too,” she orders Logan before strutting off again.

            Logan raises a brow at me. “Ace, huh?”

            We follow Jean through more warm, paneled hallways, pausing for a minute to let Logan stash his beer in the staff kitchen. We pass students now and then, most of them seemingly normal, but some appearing malformed or diseased. In the headmaster’s office, the Professor smiles kindly at me from behind his desk.

            “It’s nice to finally meet you, Ace.” He nods toward Logan. “Logan’s mentioned you in past.”

            I give said person the eye and he gives it right back. The Professor moves his wheelchair out from behind his desk. “Well, how are you today, Ace? Nervous?”

            I smile and shake my head to return the politeness.

            “No, you don’t look it,” he agrees, the illusion of youth working on him too. His crow’s feet are a good sign, and his office is organized and tasteful. The accent that he uses is not the one he was raised with, flawed, and his paralysis is from trauma, not disease. I’ve seen enough of both to tell the two apart. 

            “Jean tells me you’re from California?”

            I finally remembered the name that was in the file. Long after I lost the file, I used to sound the word out to amuse myself; _ca-li-for-ni-a_. “I’m from there, yes.”

            “How’d you end up in Canada?” Logan asks.

            “She hitchhiked,” explains Jean, though I know that’s not what he means and can tell by the way her face changes that she knows it’s not what he meant either. I’ll be more careful with my fabrications in future.

            “So,” begins the Professor, “you _learn_ mutations, is that correct?”

            I suppose Jean divulged the entirety of our conversation. “Yes.”

            “Interesting, in what way?”

            He’s intelligent, he runs this place, so he must know some things I don’t. “I copy skills by observing them. It’s not reserved to mutations.” The word still feels foreign on my tongue.

            “When you copy a mutation is it permanent or temporary?”

            I furrow my brow, not understanding the question. “Permanent. However, if I don’t practice an ability I can lose it completely sometimes.”

            “Did you lose my healing ability?" Logan asks abruptly.

            I haven’t the faintest idea what he means, but there’s a ghost of a sensation in my legs, so somewhere in the web of my mind I must understand him. “I forgot how you did it.” I sense his momentary relief, followed by confusion as he gives me a scrutinizing look. I don’t know why he’d feel relief, but suspicions always rise when I enter a room. I sink into my chair.

            “We can discuss your ability later, Ace,” says the Professor, though he seems highly interested in the subject, “but for now, I’m going to need you to answer a few basic questions; your age, for example.”

            Logan will know I’m lying if I answer that, and my credibility will be shot in seconds. I glance at the clock. Forty-five minutes until dinner. I’ve stalled for longer. “That isn’t really a question.”

            “Well, I meant how old are you?”

            “What does that matter?”

            “It matters if you’re to be placed in any classes.”

            “Oh, that’s right. This is a school.”

            “It is a school, but now considering your power I suppose you learn academics rather quickly as well?”

            Odd how he refers to it as my power. “I do. I’ve never been in a school that placed me by age, but by my experience. Is that not how it works here?”

            “We do have placement exams,” the Professor replies, “but knowing your age helps us judge which exam to give you. Do you not know your age?”

            I glance again at the clock. Forty-four minutes. With an annoyed sigh, I turn back to the Professor and see he’s narrowing his eyes as though trying to focus on a dot on my forehead-

            _Stop_. I hide everything, block him out, and turn off all the lights.

            He blinks. “How did you do that?”

            Jean looks worried. “What is it?”

            “Don’t do that,” I warn him.

            “Where did you learn how to do that?” He leans forward, voice serious. “I’m not going to do it again, I apologize for not warning you, but I need to know where you learned that.”

            “Hold on.” Logan puts out his hand to pause any interruptions. “What is it she’s doing?”

            Jean waits patiently for the answer, though she shifts her weight. The Professor shakes his head. “She’s blocking my telepathy. Jean?”

            Compliant, she walks over to me. “May I?”

            I shake my head doubtfully.

            “She won’t be able to see anything, Ace, I just want her to look.”

            I shake my head again.

            “Kid, let ‘er look,” Logan growls.

            I stare at him, trying to decipher this speedy betrayal. Jean steps back, she too glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

            “Never mind,” concedes the Professor, “it isn’t important right now.”

            Lie.

            “What is important is if anyone will be looking for y-”

            “No one’s looking,” I answer quickly.

            “You have no family or guardians-?”

            “She said she doesn’t.”

            “I was asking _her_ , Logan.”

            “And she told you.” He grows more upset the less he understands. “There’s no one looking after her expects her back.”

            “Yes, _why?”_

            Logan grits his teeth and looks at me again. I bite my cheek. “Is it mandatory that you know if someone misses me?”

            “Yes.” The Professor clasps his hands patiently. “There are rules about lost children that we need to follow, even if you really are on your own.”

            “I _am_.” Venom wells up in me. “Besides Logan, no one knows I exist.”

            Tensions spike and the room becomes awkwardly still until the Professor clears his throat. “ _We_ know, Ace. No one else has to.”

            The other two adults look at him oddly, and even I am afraid he may have found a way to read my mind. “How?”           

            He smiles softly. “You aren’t the first person who’s come here to hide.”


	3. Chapter 3

            Charles Xavier sits at the window in his study, elbows resting on his wheelchair, fingers pressed together as he concentrates on the problem at hand. He isn’t simply a mind reader. By enhancing his ability with a machine called Cerebro, Xavier can connect with any mind on the planet, and is on constant lookout for potential students. From the moment their mutation manifests to the moment they walk through his doors, he is aware of their existence.

            “I can’t place her.”

            Jean looks curiously at him from the couch.     

            “Not even when she would have been latent.” He weaves his fingers together in perplexity. “Her mind registers as functioning, but on closer inspection it’s reminiscent of…a void.”

            Jean wonders how that can be learned. “Did you notice her psyche when she was in the room?”

            Xavier shakes his head. “Did you?”

            “There was a bit of the normal static.” Jean looks toward the ceiling. “If I’d had my eyes closed I would’ve known there was the extra person, but her interference was substantially lower. When Bobby left her in my office it felt the way it does when someone’s standing further away like her mind was displaced. You’ve really never seen her. What does that mean?”

            “I’m not sure. It could be that that void has kept her hidden since birth, which would be extraordinary, but unlikely. I meant to look for her after Logan first mentioned her to me, but…”

            Jean nods in quiet understanding. The incident at Alkali Lake nearly a year ago has left an indelible mark on all of them.

            Xavier sighs hastily. “Well. I’m afraid I’ve scared her off.”

            “Same here,” Jean concurs. “When she came to my office she looked ready for a fight.”     

            He raises an eyebrow. “Seeing as who led her here.”

            Jean smiles quietly. “Hm, if only _he_ were easier to handle.”

            “Logan is perfectly easy to handle, Jean.” He turns his chair to face her, a teasing light in his eyes. “You’re just looking at him from a particularly difficult angle.”

            Jean smirks. “Not likely.”

           

            At my request they assign me a small bedroom of my own on the third floor instead of a shared dorm. Logan leaves to get me some basic toiletries as I empty the contents of my satchel onto the bed- one bedraggled change of clothes I wouldn’t dare wear to class.

            With a month already gone out of the school year some maneuvering was required to get me into classes. They had me take some academic tests in which I understood most of what was being asked of me. I told them I’m fourteen, and according to that affidavit and the test results I’m apparently a ‘sophomore.’

            Logan returns with a toothbrush and other essentials. “Hey, back there, I wasn’t trying to turn you over to the psychics, alright? They aren’t trying to get in your head all the time.”

            From my understanding, they don’t always have a choice.

            “So, what were they having such a riot about?”

            “I didn’t anticipate-” I grimace.

            Logan raises one brow.

            “You didn’t tell me there were psychics here. I would never have come had I known.”

            “Will you leave now that you do know?”  

            Leave, leave, leave. “No. Not if you want me to stay.”

            “I do.” He leans back against the dresser and crosses his arms. “We both know you need this place.”

            I’ve quit being surprised by him knowing things. “Is it your healing ability that’s kept you from aging?”

            “Sure.” He’s about to ask the obvious, but apparently decides against it. “Dinner’s starting. I’ll walk you.”

            I tuck my hands between my knees. “Do you think I could skip it?”

            “You’re not skipping dinner, you hardly eat as it is,”

            “That’s not true, you’ve seen me eat. I’m just more tired than I am hungry right now.”

            He sighs through his nose, sizing me up. “Fine, but I’m bringing you a plate and you’re going to eat it.”

            As soon as he’s gone I shove all my old things into the bottom drawer of the dresser and collapse onto the bed. A whiff of detergent and dust floats upward. There’s one window with a plain blue curtain, and a neat little desk with a lamp. The room is warm with sunlight, but still my eyelids flutter and the ceiling becomes blurry. I’m not sure what compelled me to come here, but I suppose I can stay. Just as long as they don’t try to fix me.

           

            Ancient computers sit stolidly in their rows, staring intently at the chair placed in front of them.

            “We need to put you in the system before you can start,” says Mr. Summers as he leads me to an unassigned set of monitors. “Here, Kitty will help you.”

            He waves over a smiling brunette in a bright T-shirt before going to help another student. Kitty holds her hand out. “Hi. You new to the school, or just the class?”

            “Um, both,” I shake her hand. “I’m Ace.”

            “Nice to meet you.” She sits down. “That’s your second name, right?”

            “Sure.”

             “Awesome. So, what can you do?” Then rather hastily, “If you don’t mind my asking.”

            It’s disconcerting to have this many people interested in me. “Several things,” I answer politely. Thinking I sound arrogant, I add, “But I only copied them.”

            “You’re kidding? That’s crazy, I don’t know anybody- well, other than Rogue I guess- that can copy. Oh, finally it’s loaded,” she says grudgingly to the computer.

            “Is your ability related to computers?” I ask carefully. Is that even possible?

            “No, no,” she laughs, absentmindedly tossing a brown lock over her shoulder. “We just get along.”

            I sense I’m going to be asked quite often what I can ‘do’ and I don’t like the response so far from telling people I copy. “So, what can _you_ do?”  

            “Oh! I phase through things. See?” She dips her fingers into the wooden desk and they disappear as though she were a hologram. “Not too freaky is it?”

            I choke back my excitement. “No, it’s brilliant. Could you do that with your _whole_ body? What about metal, or stone? Could you go through those?”

            Kitty just laughs again, delighted. “Yep. You’re going to like it here.”

            In this class it appears to be a presentation day, which Mr. Summers seems glad I arrived for. I suppose he thinks I’ll get the idea of the class through everyone’s finished work, but I barely see or hear any of them. Whatever I’ve missed in here will be covered by my rereading the chapter at lunch, and then devouring everything in the library on the subject. If all I have to do in order to stay here is pass classes, then I can do this. Everything will be fine.

            I glance out the window and catch the daytime moon staring at me. I look away quickly.

           

            Friday marks the third day since the girl arrived. The principal staff are gathered in the headmaster’s study discussing everyday needs and happenings; among them, the conundrum of Ace.

            “She is telling the truth as far as she knows,” explains Xavier. “But it may be that extended relatives or legal parties are involved in search of her and she is simply unaware. We shouldn’t advertise her presence, for her sake, but it would be best to look into it.”

             Logan shakes his head in frustration. “No. If anyone had really been trying they would have found her a long time ago; it’s been near a year since I ran into her living on her own, and she’s on her own still. Besides, we have tons of kids who were dumped on our doorstep or are hidin’ from their folks. We don’t harass _them_ about where they came from.”

            “Except she won’t even give us her real name. Or her age,” says Jean. “All we know for sure is that she says she’s from California.”

            Logan crinkles his brow. “She is?”

            “Yes,” Jean rubs her eyes, “she’s telling the truth about that, but she couldn’t remember when I first asked her.”

            “Logan,” sighs Xavier, “the main issue is that I’ve never _seen_ her. Not in California, not in Canada, not anywhere. I never knew she existed until you told me about her and still I never perceived of her until she walked through that door. Yes, many children come here alone, but even without notice _I_ know they’re on their way. This girl, as far as Cerebro is concerned, has never existed.”

            The room is quiet as this eeriness settles over them. Logan’s trying to work it out in his head. For a moment, in the woods, he thought she was an illusion, something he’d dreamed up. Even afterward he had the disturbing feeling that she wasn’t real until the others saw her too.   

            “You said she kept you out,” Scott leans against the fireplace, “blocked your telepathy in some way?”

            “Yes, I’ve thought about that,” Xavier says, “and it might be the cause. Jean brought up a reassuring point, that if Cerebro couldn’t pick her up then perhaps my actions at Alkali didn’t affect her.”

            He manages to avoid expressing the twinge of pain in his voice, but knows it’s shared by every person in the room nonetheless.

            “Look, don’t bother her about it, alright? Any of it.” Logan crosses his arms. “Whatever her issue is, prying into it will just close her up further. We’ll talk, and I’ll see if she doesn’t open up a little.

            Scott looks dubious, but Xavier nods. “Yes, please do, she listens to you.”

            Having more to say, but too agitated to collect his thoughts, Logan stalks out of the room.

           

            Logan keeps trying to draw me out. Normally that would offend me and I would avoid him, but it does mean we can sit peacefully on a bench by the soccer field while the moon broods on the other side of the mansion.

            “So. How old are you really?”

            Sighing through my nose, I look at the sky like this is its fault. “I don’t look fourteen to you?”

            “You know what I mean. I’ve kept all that stuff quiet about you, but I’d like it if you’d at least clue me in.”

            When he speaks I think only about how much he doesn’t like to. It distracts me, and I appreciate that. “I’m old, Logan.”

            He huffs. “You smell it.”

            “As old as you smell?”

            “How old do I smell?”

            Well-dressed kids shout as they play on the field. “Older than dirt.”

            The laugh he makes is like punching a bean bag; breathy and only half there. “Probably am.”

            I take a deep breath and enhance it with a yawn. Logan knows I don’t sleep, and assumes it’s the same reason I jump at sudden sounds and go tense when people enter a room.

            “How old were you when I met you? Eight?”

            I blink. “Nine?”

            “Been at least twenty years, that doesn’t explain why you still look-”

            “I don’t know, okay? I told you I don’t know.”

            He’s giving me a stern eye. “‘I don’t know,’ that’s the best you can give me? Ace-”

            “You want to talk about the facility, but I barely remember any of that.”

            “You remember me though.”

            “Yeah, I remember you. Logan.” I pull my knees up to my chest. “I don’t want to talk about anything that happened before now, alright?”

            “Wait, did something bad happen to you last spring?”

            “Well, I ran into you again.” 

            “No, after that, _bub_.”

            “Why last spring?”

            “Nothing happened?”

            “Should something have happened?” 

            He glares harshly. “Last spring something happened to everybody. If it didn’t happen to you it must’ve happened to the people around you.”

            “I was walking, like when I met you, so I didn’t really see anybody.”

            “Ace, you’ve gotta be kidding me. You didn’t feel it, and you didn’t see it happen to anyone, you didn’t even hear it on the news?”

            “Haven’t been anywhere near a media outlet since we went to that diner-”

            “Jesus-”  He smears his hand over his mouth. Then he just shakes his head. “Just don’t mention it, alright? How’s school?”

            I shrug.

            “Make any friends?”

            “No.”

            “Good, kids stink.” He’s fiddling with a cigar he won’t smoke because there are stinking kids around.

            I get up. “I’m going in now.”

            Logan raises an eyebrow then waves his hand.

            It’s a pleasant day, causing most of the students to stray outdoors. As I walk I watch them out of the corner of my eye, watch them playing and joking and enjoying their lives, and making sure they don’t watch me phase the tips of my fingers through the different objects I pass.


	4. Chapter 4

            It’s been four nights without a problem. I’m usually asleep before Lights Out and wake up promptly before breakfast, the much-needed rest greatly improving my morale. Today I even ate lunch with a few girls who weren’t overly cheery and didn’t ask too many questions. On any previous day eating with them would’ve been an ordeal to avoid.

            At the end of English, my last class of the day, the Professor asks if I might stay after. He projects the request directly to my mind instead of saying it out loud, perhaps to avoid embarrassment in front of the other students. I find it unsettling because he put something in my head.

            “I hear you’re picking up a few things from the other students.”

            “Yes, Kitty taught me how to type.”

            “And Bobby’s taught you new ways of tormenting Logan,” he says with amusement.

            I am not amused. “Did Logan tell you I copied Bobby’s ice ability?”

            “No, Jean did.”

            Jean the informant. “You two are close?”

            “She and Scott Summers were among my first students.”

            “So they grew up with you.”

            He nods. “They arrived here when they were about your age.”

            “Why does Sco- Mr. Summers, always wear those dark glasses? He’s not blind…is he?”

            “I think that’s something you should ask him.” The Professor knows when I’m stalling. He narrows his eyes to see what I’m thinking then catches himself and stops. “Ace, I hope you aren’t planning on copying _every_ power you come across.”

            “No.”

            “Be careful whose you do. There are some things you can’t give back, and others that will take on a life of their own. You have a rare and tremendous gift, Ace. Be careful how you use it.”

            Be careful, be careful. “Copying is not a gift, it’s a cheat.”

            “Is that what you believe?” He pauses for me to reflect on that.

            I flick my gaze over him. “I know what I’m doing. I just need a stable place to do it. Somewhere I won’t be bothered.”

            He studies me for a moment, and I wonder if he’s as intuitive as my past superiors. “Very well then. Just keep in mind that you have a support system here. We'll do our best to help."

              Sure you will.

           

* * *

 

            Scott steps into Xavier’s office, a dour expression on his face. “She was in the Danger Room today.”

            “Yes, I sent her to observe one of Storm’s sessions,” replies Xavier.

            “She observed mine, we were doing advanced tactical.”         Scott crosses his arms. “She saw everyone’s abilities and what they could be used for in an offensive situation. I asked her what she was doing there and you know what she did? Started correcting our maneuvers.”

            Xavier smiles apologetically. “It appears she is capable of picking up innate skill and intelligence as well as mutation. She’s just learning from you.”

            “Yes, but it’s not just me she’s learning from is it? After the session, she went over to Piotr and got him to show her his power then they started speaking Russian. But I watched her and she was picking it up as she went along.”

            “So she might be a linguist as well?”

            “She’s-” Scott sighs. “There’s a wall around that kid. She ignores me in class, knows all the material, and what with the power-grabbing she’s going to be uncontrollable in a matter of days. This habit of copying the other students is going to get her into trouble, and then she’ll try to fight back.” With a furrowed brow, he lowers his voice. “And then we’ll have another Allerdyce. I’m keeping an eye on her.”

            “Leave her to me, Scott, I’ll handle it,” replies Xavier firmly. “There’s a clear respect for adults in her demeanor, do not undermine it. She doesn’t yet trust you any more than you trust her.”

            “She needs someone she can look up to.”

            “And you think it should be you? Or do you think it _shouldn’t_ be Logan?”

            Scott sets his teeth.

           

            It's always a pleasant surprise when Logan actually responds to being called. He leans over the back of the chair Ace sat in on her first day, broodingly staring at the seat.

            “She was just a kid then,” he says despondently. “Now it’s like she’s been grownup for years. She doesn’t want to be with other kids, she speaks like an adult, acts like one, but she _is_ still just a kid….isn’t she?”

            Xavier shakes his head. “Not in the way we’d like to think.”

            “She breaks it sometimes,” Logan says. “Sometimes she smiles and I can see her again. What happened to her?”

            “Whatever it was caused her to grow up mentally, but not physically. Jean’s examination revealed all the signs of a healthy adolescent, no stunted growth of any kind. When she ‘breaks’ as you call it, that shows that her emotions and natural reactions to things are buried, perhaps by necessity, perhaps by conditioning. But they are intact, and she has some of the most important developmental years right ahead of her. That’s how you can help her, Logan.”

            “And how do I do that?”

            “Encourage her to make friends her own age, to do things other teenagers enjoy. From what I’ve surmised she’s been under pressures too strong even for an adult. I think a little recreation and relief is what she needs most.”

            “You’re looking at the wrong person, Prof.”

            “Oh am I?” goads Xavier. “She trusts you, Logan.”

            “I’m just allowed to get the closest,” Logan sighs through his nose, “but I wouldn’t say she trusts me.” 

            “I take it the talking isn’t going well.”

            Logan raises his eyebrows.

            “She’ll push through it,” Xavier says reassuringly. “We can’t expect to her to open up all at once. I’ll help in any way I can, but you continue to do what you think best and she’ll begin to improve. I guarantee it.”       

           

* * *

 

            “You don’t actually believe all that optimistic junk he’s saying do you?”

            Logan skips a faint-hearted pebble across the lake. “No, not really.”

            Mine skips further.

            “Doesn’t mean there’s no truth to it.”

            Found a nice flat one. It sinks.

            “Look, just because he’s optimistic…I mean, from what you’re saying, you’re like me. You’ve been pushed farther than you should,” he’s given up on the stone skipping and sits down on a bench, "but you know you can’t just stay in the dark. You need light now and then to keep yourself from going insane.” He raises his eyebrows in acknowledgement as I garner four skips in a row. “Tell me, who let you down? Was it me?”

            “No. Don’t worry about it.”

            “It’s not going to just go away.”

            “Things have gone away before. It’ll happen.”

            “ _I’m_ not going to go away.”

            “I believe you.” A cool wind rises. “She’s optimistic. That’s not why you love her is it?”

            I assumed he'd be affronted by my assumption, but he just arches a brow. “Jean? She’s…confident. Happy.”

            “And when she isn’t?” I kick pebbles around in the dirt. “If she needs you to, you’ll leave.” I pick up the roundest stone I can and throw it as far over the water as possible. It lands on the opposite bank. “You won’t know it, but that’s what you’ll be doing. Something will happen, and you’ll abandon everything just for her.”

            He doesn’t contest me, but he’d like to. “Where’re you getting all this from?”

            Ignoring him, I throw another rock, a bigger one, out into the middle of the water. It splashes loudly and makes a hollow noise as the water sucks it under.

            It’s been overcast for three days, signaling the impending downpour. I considered begging Ms. Munroe to “cancel” the storm with her ability, but I can’t have her do that every time it rains. By midnight the rain hasn’t come yet, but the wind’s stirring like it should. I won’t fall asleep. I’ll stay up and listen to the rain hitting my window, and by morning I’ll be getting ready for class before anyone else. 

 

            Rain patters against the windows as somewhere a clock strikes three. At first I don’t open my eyes, I want to keep sleeping, but there are people in the room with me. With a jolt, I wake up, crushed into a corner of a second floor hallway. Logan’s crouched in front of me, holding me by one shoulder and one clenched fist. Dr. Grey and Mr. Summers are standing behind him watching intently, and in the bedrooms some of the kids lie extra still, straining to listen.

            My heart gradually ceases its racing. “I’m sorry.”

            Logan just closes his eyes with possible relief before lifting me to my feet. Summers stands back, but Dr. Grey watches me carefully. Keeping my eyes down, I quickly put up my blockade.

            This night repeats itself again and again in its old, agonizing routine- rain or no rain. I try to stay awake, but I always end up hiding in a corner far from my room, tense and terrified. I feel stupid when Logan has to practically wrestle me before I’ll wake up. Students whose rooms I’ve passed in the night try to ignore me in the daytime, but others whisper and point, making the hairs bristle on the back of my neck.       

            When I do manage to stay awake, I take the opportunity to practice my various “borrowed” talents. Piotr’s armor is tricky and I doubt I’ll ever get the hang of it. So far only my hands and forearms can sustain any semblance of armor. Bobby’s ability to create ice seemed too simple, a little matter of lowering the temperature of airborne water molecules. However when I practice this the room gets chilly and a layer of hoarfrost hugs the bedcovers. My own abilities I’ve long since grown tired of, having practiced them for so long that they’re now engrained in my DNA for good.

            I wake up in my bed this morning and think it’s a blessing I’ve made it through the night without leaving my- There are faint traces of blood on the tips of my fingernails. My stomach ties in knots. Someone knocks at the door, and I scramble back into bed, pulling the covers up to my ears. The door opens.     

            “It’s just me.” Logan’s voice is low and soft. “You didn’t hurt anybody, just scratched me up a little, but I’ll live.”

            “I can’t stay here.”

            “Sure you can.” He steps into the room and closes the door carefully. “You’re not the only one here with problems. Some kids have more dangerous nightmares than you, darlin’.”

            “I don’t hear them at night.”

            “Because they fought through it,” he opens a dresser drawer, “and they let people help them.” A pair of hand-me-down jeans flops onto the bed. “C’mon, you’re gonna make it through the day, get dressed.”

            Logan leaves the room and I throw my legs over the side of the bed, digging my nails into my hands. I look quickly out the window, see the crescent moon peeping behind an aspen, and jerk the curtains closed.

           

            Gym is the worst.

            “Hey, crazy girl, thanks for waking me up last night.” The short one forcefully throws the basketball in my direction.

            I catch it. _Don’t get angry_. I roll it back.

            “Hey, that what get you kicked out of your last house? You scream all night and wake everybody up?” He throws the ball at me again. “Hey, Crazy Girl I’m talkin-”

            I hit it back right in his stomach. He groans and bends over, and there’s a collective sucking in of breath.

            It’s no time at all before I’m forcibly removed from my seat on the kid’s chest, a horde of ogle-eyed youth watching and pointing the entire time. After being judged by Summers and ascribed an hour of detention, I follow Logan into the staff kitchen, unafraid of committing further infractions. He glances at me over his shoulder then plucks two bottles of beer and a soda from the fridge.

            “Was it the sleepwalking?” he guesses as he settles onto a barstool.

            “I’m allowed aren’t I?”

            “You’re not allowed ever,” he pops the cap off the soda bottle, making my nerves jump, and hands it to me, “but I’ll make an allowance this time. So, can we talk about all that now? The nightmares, the sleepwalking. The kicking Logan in the gut when he’s trying to get you back in bed?”

            I glare at a student who peeks into the kitchen briefly. “Do I ever…talk when I sleepwalk?”

            “Sometimes.” Logan takes a drink.

            I eye that beer. “What do I say?”

            “Don't know, mostly you’re mumbling.” He lowers the bottle. “Hey.”

            I look up, assuming a blank expression.

            “When I come to you, you always look like you’re in pain. Does anything hurt in the morning?”

            “No.” I draw a line in the condensation on the soda bottle. “Are you going to be in the Danger Room today?”

            “Got a class at four.”

            “Can I watch?”

            He looks me over. “Heard you were watching Summers’ session earlier correcting his strategies?”

            “I was just doing it to annoy him.” I rest my chin on my hands. “Can I have a beer?”

            “Not until it’s socially acceptable for me to give you one.”

            “Yeah right, gimme a beer.”

            He arches an eyebrow and half smiles. “You’re gonna be a dangerous one.”

 

            For several, blissful weeks the nightmares cease. I get enough sleep, I don’t get into fights, and Logan doesn’t have to worry as much. I enjoy it while it lasts. Then during class I thought I’d nodded off at my desk when I saw Storm and the other students transform into different people and all turn to stare at me. I got up and backed out of the room. The change of scenery dissipated the delusion, and I realized with a sinking horror that I was still awake. Storm had followed me out and was crackling with irritation, which only triggered the hallucination all over again. I sat on a couch with my eyes closed and my ears covered until she kindly walked me to the Professor’s office. There, I curled up tight in an upholstered chair, eyes still closed, desiring with every bone in my body to be somewhere else.

            If only I’d reacted with a bit more composure. The Professor has set aside an hour of his time every week to _talk_ to me about the issue. He’ll figure me out, but I judge I’m more stubborn.

            “How are you today, Ace?”

            “Uncomfortable.”

            “I’m sorry. Is there any way I can help, or would you just rather not be here?”

            I raise my eyebrows.

            “Alright. Well, I know how you feel about aggravating personal questions, so we’ll avoid those. I’d just like to talk about school for now.” He gives me an amused smile. “You’ve read ahead no doubt in English. How do you like the book?”

            I settle into the cushions of the chair. “It’s alright.”

            “Shelley strays toward the melodramatic, but of course it was the style of the time. What do you think of her portrayal of humanity?”

            I perk up at this discussion topic. “Victor is the embodiment of human arrogance, but each of his relatives represents something too.”

            His eyes twinkle. “Think of them more as a whole instead of individually. They are removed one by one, and each time Victor loses something.”

            I chew on my cheek and curl my feet underneath me in the fancy chair, to which he does not protest. “Sanity?”

            “Purpose. Having such a family gave him purpose. Have you read to the end?”

            “Yes. I hate it.”

            “In what way?”

            “Because the monster never gets his revenge,” I bite my tongue, “and he realizes there’s nothing left for him and goes to die.”

            Xavier nods gravely. “It’s a rather open ending isn’t it?”

            “Not terribly. You’re quite certain what happens.”

            “Perhaps, but all endings depend on the point of view of the reader. How do you think it ends?”

            “He does it, he goes out into the middle of nowhere and kills himself. What has he left to live for?”

            His brows crook. “He could do that, but think about the peasant family he loved.”

            “They rejected him.”

            “Yes, but what if on the way to kill himself he found some other reason to live? Some other person or home that actually accepted him?”

            “He’d been rejected so many times, and he loathed himself,” I say. “Why would he try again?”

            “Well, why did he keep trying with all those other people? He knew he couldn’t be accepted, but he still loved humanity and still hoped.”

            I’m about to agree when I realize what he’s doing. I sit upright, watching him closely. “May I go now?”

            Xavier checks the clock over his shoulder. “Alright. I’d like to see you again next week at the same time though. And for a little longer, mind you.”

            I get up slowly, watching the second hand on the clock tick by.

* * *

           “Post traumatic stress,” Xavier says assuredly. “I can’t make any perfectly sound analyses as long as she keeps me out of her head, but the signs are quite clear and she claims to have had them for over a year.”

            “Only a year? Alkali was ages ago.”

            “It may not be from Alkali, Logan.”

            “Then what the hell happened to her?”

            Xavier sighs and rubs his forehead. “Patience is all we have, Logan. Just continue doing what you’re doing; make her feel secure. Hopefully, she’ll become more stable after adolescence.”

            Logan grumbles to himself, watching heavy clouds gather in the sky. His brows meet over the bridge of his nose.   

            The kids outside are ushered back in, basketballs and other equipment stored away, and the garden shed latched tight. Ororo Munroe leaves her curtains wide open to admire the coming deluge, and Charles Xavier settles into his study to finish off the last few chapters of his book. Logan and Jean pass each other in the hall with a friendly nod as Logan heads to the library.

            Ace has a sofa all to herself in the corner, a large atlas encumbering her legs. The other students idle over homework, hiding cell phones as Logan walks by, forgetting as always that he can hear their low hum like many bees in a hive.         

            The rumble of approaching thunder ripples the air and he knows now what a night like this is to her. She sniffles and turns the page of the atlas, whence her eyes immediately begin roving, memorizing every detail of the map. While their hearing might be at the same level, her eyesight clearly works very differently than his.

            Lifting her head she blinks up at him, eyes smiling. He leans over to glance at her map. “Manhattan, huh?”

            She sighs and looks back over her volume to find the exact street she left off on.

            “You missed gym today.”

            She raises a cynical eyebrow. “We both know I could be doing something better with my time than playing tennis.” She turns the book around in her lap so the map is facing away from her. “Besides, I’m not suited for team sports.”

            Thunder rolls again, closer this time, and she instantly devotes herself to learning this map backwards and forwards. Any further conversation now at a halt, he gives her shoulder a brief nudge. “At least show up tomorrow, a'right? It’ll be in the gym ‘cause of the rain, you can watch them slip all over the waxed floors.”

            He gets a sinister little chuckle from her on that one.

           

* * *

 

            No. This did not just happen, I am not- Outside.

            I went to bed just as the storm was beginning, letting the rain lull me to sleep. I can’t recall having a nightmare, but I’ve woken up in a nest of leaves underneath a wide bush. It’s drizzling, I’m damp through, and I can’t believe this is happening again.

            I don’t know my way back from here. The rain has suffocated all scent, and in every direction the forest looks the same. I sniff around my nest under the bush until I find a trace of my own scent leading away. It’s disappearing fast, but now I might be able to follow the trail of disrupted leaves home.

            I’ve only walked about twenty feet when I hear someone coming toward me through the loam. I stand still and vanish.

            “I know you’re there. You alright?” Logan walks up to me and stops with an uneasy glance at the place where my heart beats in terror. He sniffs the air once to make sure. “It’s just me, Ace. I’m not going to hurt you.”

            “I’m not asleep,” I say, reappearing.

            He takes off his coat and places it around the front of my shoulders.

            “Logan-”

            He lifts me off my feet like a featherweight and starts heading back the way he came.

           

            I’m curled up on my bed in one of his heavy flannel shirts and a pair of long sweatpants with the campus logo ‘X’ on the hip. Logan comes in with a mug of something steaming and a heavy blanket over his shoulder. “Sit up.”

            He hands me the drink then sits on the edge of the bed and settles the blanket around me. The drink is strong and bitter, but it melts my insides and seeps into every corner of me.

            “I’m sorry I keep doing this,” I say into the mug. “I don’t know how to stop.”

            He lifts my damp hair out from under the blanket and spreads it over my back. “Quit apologizing. Any idea why it happens on nights like this?”

            I shake my head and set my teeth on the ceramic edge of the mug.

            “Do you control those too?” he asks.

            He’s asking about my canines. They do draw attention. I make a noise in the negative, too exhausted to pull away from the mug. My nose is the coldest part of my body right now and the steam is comforting. My legs ache and I scraped up my feet pretty bad. Logan reaches for the mug before I fall asleep in it, but I clutch it tighter and take another few sips. “Isn’t this coffee?”

            “Decaf.”

            “It’s still coffee though.”

            “What’s your point?”

            Setting the mug on the nightstand, I hug the blanket closer and yawn.

            “Whoa, you’ve got a whole set of fangs there.”            

            “I do not.” I frown, rubbing my nose to keep it warm.

            He just chuckles and rearranges my drying hair. “You’re gonna be fine tonight, alright? You want me to stay in here?”

            I shake my head. “Hey.”

            “Yeah?”

            “You have angry nightmares.”

            “Yeah.”

            “But you don’t sleepwalk. How is that?”

            He scrunches up his face and ruffles his hair with his fingers. “Ask Chuck, he knows everything.”

            I reach for the mug again, but it’s cooled a little. “I wanted to see your Danger Room session.”

            “You’re really interested in that aren’t you?”

            “Well, all I’ve been doing since I got here is reading, but I need to stretch, you know? I can’t sit still for too long.”

            “You’re telling me. What _is_ the longest you’ve ever sat still?” When I lower my brows in irritation, he hits my knee lightly with his fist. “Go to sleep. We’ll talk about arranging a practice session for you tomorrow.”         

            He turns the light out as he leaves, taking the mug with him, and I tuck myself back under the sheets, burying my face in flannel.

           

            Matthew Larson, a junior, is standing tall and proud in my seat in geometry. This is the second class we share and I’ve endured more than enough of his childish antics to keep me going for a lifetime. He calls himself a sonopath because he can control sound waves with his mind. So far the only proof of this talent is that he can replay anything he hears on the radio which is what he happens to be doing right now. My seat is the tower for his beacon as he resonates a crude version of some trendy song. Nearly everyone is rocking in their seats or singing along, but not as impressively as he, mouthing the words exactly and doing a lively performance of waving his hands in the air.

            I lean by the door, waiting while the rest of the class becomes just a bit more rowdy. A particularly pretty girl with blue hair stands up on the desk next to Matt and begins dancing in an obnoxiously sultry way. The door opens next to me, and Summers finally walks in. Crossing his arms, we exchange a look before he observes the performance in stony silence. Several faces fall, and people turn quickly back in their seats. The girl blushes and clambers off the desk, but Matthew- eyes closed and shaking his head to the lyrics- is completely unaware of anything beyond his own noise.

            “Larson.”

            Matt opens one eye, jolts, and practically collapses into my seat with a mildly sheepish expression on his face. “Sorry, teach.”

            Summers turns his tinted glasses on me.

            “That’s my seat,” I say mundanely, gesturing to Matt.

            Summers turns his gaze back on Matt, who grins boyishly and bounds back to his own desk. I sit down as Summers walks to the front of the class with an irritated gait. As I’m setting out my things I accidentally make eye contact with Matt across the room. He winks. I roll my eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

            I try to slink out right before the bell and be down the hall before anyone notices. I didn’t think a pair of long legs would decide to catch up. I suck in my breath as the reek of his thick cologne reaches out to smother me. 

            “Hey,” Matt says, his charm centering heavily on his grin.

            “Hi,” I speak to his expensive shoes.

            “What’s your name again?”

            “…Ace.”

            “And you’re new here, right? You’re in my…English class too?”

            “No.”

            “You sure? You’re in one of my oth- Chem! _That’s_ where I’ve seen you.”

            He’s no doubt laughing at me since he must know who I am, but is using charm to mask it. I watch him carefully. “Why are you talking to me?”

            “Because I haven’t met you yet.”

            I can’t put up with him right now because between his cologne, the lingering cigar scent, and the loamy odor sticking to the palms of my hands I’m in a muggy cloud of sensory overload. “I’m not someone you want to talk to. Sorry.”

            I pick up speed and duck into my next class.

                       

            In the office again. One kid got a bloody nose and there’s a bruise blossoming on my shoulder blade, but beyond that nobody got damaged. Naturally I should be getting detention, but instead that’s being transformed into another weekly hour of counseling with Xavier. I’d rather they confine me to my room.

            “You can’t just attack anyone who doesn’t like you,” Summers admonishes once the other two have left the room. “Otherwise we’d all have armies to fight.”

            I was expecting, “What’s wrong with you? You know better than this,” but these people don’t know I know better. I try to see Summers’ eyes through his glasses, but the material they’re made of is aggravatingly distorting. He knows I’m not taking his advice to heart.

            When I enter Xavier’s office he’s intent on his paperwork, but still manages to give a disapproving arch of his brow. “Have a seat.”

            There are eight plastic chairs by his desk for the physics lecture he just gave. I think of taking the one farthest away from him, but I don’t feel like getting on his bad side in such a petty way right now. 

            “What can be done to make you happier here, Ace?”  

            He’s asking for the sake of asking, which is kind, but we both know exactly what I need. “I don’t want to be in here all the time. I can take care of myself.”

            “I don’t doubt that at all, however, you’re lashing out at other students and that is not acceptable. Ace,” his tone of voice changes slightly, “you are mistaken if you think I’m trying to _fix_ you. I can’t. But there are some things that can be helped.”

            I’ve been expecting this. “The dreams are never going to go away.”

            “There are medications that can aid in lessening the impact and frequency of the dreams by leveling out the chemical imbalance causing the anxiety.”

            “What about the hallucinations?” I ask.

            “Unfortunately, in terms of hallucinogen medication there’s very little out there for young adults without a pre-diagnosed psychosis. There are a few trial drugs, of course, but-”

            “The dreams and the hallucinations are just the beginning. There will be meds for the sleep, the hyper-sensitivity, the depression, the withdrawal. There’s got to be another way to- No,” I can already tell what line of reasoning he’s going to use here, “I am not _talking_ about it, no therapy.”

            “None of your symptoms can be cured through use of medication,” he concedes. “Talking is the best way to improve. It helps lessen the pain.”       

            A leaf flutters past the window behind him. My left hand tightens into a fist. The clock ticks, our hearts beat, students walk past the room chattering.

            “Ace, what is it? What has harmed you so bad you think it can’t be undone?”

            “I don’t want you knowing.” My head gets hot and I tighten both fists. “I don’t want anyone knowing, _no one_ needs that kind of pain. Just, let me handle it.”

            “Alright. Let me help.” The lines of his forehead crease.

            “Don’t put me on medication.”

            “Not even for the hallucinations?”

            “They don’t happen often.”

            “And when they do? When you’re in the middle of class and you think someone is attacking you? What will happen then?”

            I gaze over his shoulder and out the window again before placing my fists in my lap and focusing on them.  

            “When you fought with those two boys was that part of a hallucination?”

            “No.”

            “Had either of them bothered you before?”

            “No.”

            “Are they in any of your classes?”

            “No.”

            “Ace, look at me. Was last night part of a hallucination?”

            “I don’t know _what_ last night was.”

            He backs off on that point. “Did you go to school before this?” When I don’t reply he changes the question. “Where did you learn to read and write?”

            I remain unresponsive. He closes his eyes tiredly. “Is getting into fights a _habit_ of yours?”

            “No.”

            “But someone’s clearly taught you how.”

            I breathe in deeply and half close my eyes.

            “Ace, give me a way to help you.”

            No one has ever asked me that. I don’t think I like it. It feels strange. “Why can’t I schedule a Danger Room session?”

            “You can if you want to. There are a few open spaces in my morning power control class.”

            “Is there any way I can schedule a _private_ session? Without other students around.”

            “Surely you can, but you will be supervised until your instructor thinks you’re ready to move on.”

            “That’s fine.” That’s a relief. I can’t imagine having to use my abilities in front of kids. “Can I pick my instructor?”

            “Of course. If you’ll come back later I’ll have the paperwork for you from Miss Grey when she isn’t busy.”

            “Great, thanks.” I smile. “I can go now right?”

            “Yes, go on.”  He waves me off and resumes his work.

           

            A clap on the shoulder and a rare smile greet my news. “You and me, paperwork practically signs itself.”

            “Oh yeah?” I kick the fringe of the hallway rug. “How do you know I wasn’t gonna pick Scott?”

            Logan looks at me hesitantly. “Were you?”

            I give him a pitying look. 

            “Why not? He’s a good teacher.”

            “Yeah, but I already have him for math and...”

            He gives me an approving smile and a short nod. “Alright, I’ll see you down there on Monday an hour before Lights Out. Got it?”

            “Got it.”

            He leaves and I turn to head back to my room only to see Matt standing at the foot of the stairs. “What have you got against Summers?”

            “Are you _listening_ to my conversations?”

            He puts his hands up defensively. “Hey, I was just passing by, don’t get mad at me. He’s a cool guy, everybody likes him.”

            I ignore him and take the adjoining set of stairs.

            “Hey, we’re starting a movie in the lounge, wanna come?”

            “No.”

            “Suit yourself.” Somebody turns on a stereo and Matt heads off to the lounge. It takes me a second to notice the music is getting fainter as Matt walks further away.

            The next morning I wake up with the song he was playing stuck in my head. I’d never heard it until last night, but it’s repeating itself over and over again. Then I forget about it for a blissful while, spending my weekend in the unpopulated areas of the school reading, until Matt saunters into algebra Monday morning and the song is back in an instant.  

            Summers has been lecturing for twenty minutes straight when I find myself writing song lyrics into my notes. I scowl in Matt’s direction. He’s unusually quiet over there. Matt always has to put his two cents into everything, the funny guy to the teacher’s straight man, but today he’s bent over his paper, scribbling silently. I try to center my empathy on just him, but I can’t do that so well from this distance and with so much interference in between.

          I push everything off my desk at once and it hits the ground with satisfactory alarm; books slamming against the linoleum, writing utensils spinning off under chairs, papers flapping. Every nerve in the room leaps and every head turns to look at me. Summers glances up, brows dipping under his glasses, but Matt hasn’t budged. Gradually, he realizes everyone is the room is distracted and turns to see. He had us all on _mute_. 

            “Sorry,” I apologize flatly as I bend down to retrieve my things.

            I expect to be censured in front of everyone, but Summers has noticed Matt too and as he crosses his arms I get the feeling he’s quite familiar with this particular behavior. Matt’s giving me the stinkeye.

 

            “So, this is it.” Logan idly waves a hand about the interior of the Danger Room. It’s a big, wide, round room with metal tiling on the walls and floor. There’s an enclosed platform above us reaching out to the center of the room containing the control deck and monitors.

            “Is it done by hologram?” I inquire dubiously.

            “A little fancier than that,” is all he offers in answer. He gestures at the platform. “Fire ‘er up.”

            The room begins to transform and before I know it we’re standing in an oak forest with yellow weeds scratching up to our knees. A warm breeze rustles through the branches gently and I can see blue sky above us. Logan waves at the sky. “One more.”

            The environment changes gradually, appearing as pixels rapidly retreating then reforming. We’re looking down now, down from the roof of a very tall building surrounded by miles and miles of city. I can hear a harbor not far away.

            “Manhattan,” I say impressed. I squint as a setting sun glints off a glittering skyscraper a few blocks away.

            “It can make imaginary scenarios too, not everything has to be an actual pla-”

            As he’s speaking the room shifts once again and we find ourselves in a long, slanted hallway with a high ceiling. The slanted wall appears to be a rectangle of wooden beams with a gigantic canvas stretched between them and stapled to them with monstrous metal tabs. Intrigued I skip backwards to investigate the outside of the wall. I’ve entered, or rather exited into, a giant’s studio. The hallway we were in was the space behind a painter’s canvas leaning against the wall. At this size the blank threads are like notches and ridges on a climbing wall. “Can I climb on it?”

            “No,” Logan states with a wave of his hand. “We’ve got other things to work on first.”

            The environment dissolves again, this time reappearing as the original room only now furnished with training equipment.

            “Hokay,” says Logan, “show me your powers.”

            I’m surprised. “You’ve seen them.”

            “A few of ‘em, but I know you’ve picked up a couple since you got here. Show me how they’re coming along.”

            Reluctantly, I let a little frost build on my fingers and climb up my forearm, then change my mind and replace it with Piotr’s armor up to my elbow. As that gradually powers down, I walk over to a steel climbing pole and, taking a deep breath, walk straight through it. I shiver as it coolly splits me down the middle, and make it out the other side feeling a bit numb and a little sick.

            “You have been busy,” is all Logan says.          

            I hate being on display. “You already know the other things I can do.”

            “Then show me those too.”

            I purse my lips and turn invisible. He follows my general position with his eyes as his ears tell him where I am. I walk in a wide arc around him, slowly lowering my body temperature and the regularity of my heartbeat. I revel in the increasingly perturbed expression in his face as he begins to lose track of me. I’m barely breathing, taking long, silent strides, joints trembling as they carry my hardly living body over the cold floor. He sniffs the air and looks back over his shoulder to where I had originally been standing. “How long have you had that one?”

            “Since we first met. I used it to make you think I was dead.” I wait for the lecture.

            “Where the hell’d you learn it?”

            I shrug as I reappear. “Maybe it was someone at the facili-” I look around quickly. “Does this room record-”

            “Yes.”

            I drop the subject. “What do you want me to do now?”

            “That all the powers you have?”

            “No, just the easy ones to exhibit.” I’m scoping out the room and pushing my senses to do so. It’s specifically designed to alter your perception, wider than it physically should be, echoing certain sounds and muffling others. I’ve noticed changes in scent and temperature when I’m in here as well. The technology is intriguing, but I was never one to get caught up in ones and zeros. It’s going to take a lot of getting used to.

            “Well, I think you’ve got a good grasp on the old ones, let’s practice controlling the newer ones.”

            “I don’t really pay them enough attention to lose control,” I say.

            “Mutations have the inconvenient habit of getting involved when you’re paying the least attention,” he replies.           

            I’ve read about the many episodes of mutants losing control of their abilities often ending with humiliating or disastrous results. “My mutations aren’t the same though. I have to cultivate them to get them to be anywhere near that level of interesting.”

            “Ace, quit arguing with me. I’ve been working with kids you know, older kids, on their abilities. Now they’ve had them longer than you and there are still times when they surprise themselves.”

            I lower my voice. “Logan, I’ve had mine longer than they’ve been alive. I know what I’m talking about.” 

            He huffs. I’ve won that point. “Well, then in your case the first part of power control is emotion control. No more beating up jerks on the playground, you need to learn to keep your anger- Where are you going?”

            “Forget it, I’m not doing this.”

            “You don’t get to decide that.”

            “I don’t?” I spin around to face him. “I’m not having anybody tell me what I need to control. I’ve spent the last dozen years of my life under control, and now my brain is misfiring, so if this is just another place like that then forget it I’m not-not-”

            “Okay,” he says gently, “don’t stress yourself out.”

            “Don’t tell me what to do.”

            “Ace, shut up, you’re right.” He starts walking towards me. “You’re here to relieve stress. Now c’mon you’re fighting me you got it?”

            “Okay.”

            He hesitates. “I won’t pop any claw on you right off.”

            “Oh. So, just sparring?”

            “You sound disappointed.”

            “No, I just- are we going to fight or not?” I wonder if at some point he’ll still try and teach me emotion control.

            “Yeah, you start.”

            “So, just fighting, no powers or anything?” I start walking toward him to cover the short distance between us. “Is the goal to knock you down or-?”        

            Immediately, I duck as he swats at me, dodging into his blind spot. I spend the next few minutes avoiding contact until I’m sure of what we’re doing. He’s getting fed up with me when I finally get a chance to box him under the ribs.

            “Don’t pull your punches, kid, I’m not made of china.”

            My second hit is stronger and he grunts from the impact. The muscle around my bruised shoulder begins to ache. “You’re pulling _your_ punches.”

            “Have to.”

            I block a hit and try to push him back, but he only rocks slightly on his feet. He’s a lot heavier than I calculated. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

            He begins picking up his pace to match mine, getting closer to striking me every time. He tries to knock my legs out from under me. “It has to do with- _umph_ – the facility. It wasn’t just the claws. They gave me an entire skeleton.”

            He knocks me over with that one and I kind of slide across the sleek flooring. “They- they _replaced_ -”

            “No, no, grafted onto.”  

            “Is that why you weigh a ton?”

            He lunges to tackle me, but I scramble out of his way, deciding I really don’t want to take any more hits from a man with armored bones. Any muscle pain has ceased as I get more and more into the fight. I’m a little out of my mind when I succeed in a particularly tricky dodge and, out of giddy adrenaline, snag his uniform with my claws. Realizing the idiocy of this, I jump back several feet to avoid certain doom as he pivots to smack me. 

            _Snikt._

            Now that I know the reason for his weight I can judge his movement more accurately while I avoid those blades. After a bit of wrestling, I finally get him face first on the floor with his arms pinned down. He could still shake me off if he tried, but instead he retracts the claws. His skin heals speedily like they were never there. “Alright, get off.”

            “What’s the magic word?”       

            “Outside, where you’ll be _sleeping_ if you don’t get off.”

            I can’t help but smile at that, and since I can’t think of anything more aggravating to say I comply.

He gives me a semi-pleased, semi-disgruntled look when he gets up, which I take as a good sign. “Okay. Now we have something to work with.”

 

            I’m bouncing in my seat and looking forward to Wednesday, my next Danger session. We aren’t going to fight all the time, last night was just fun. It was too close to curfew however because I found myself wide awake from the exercise- though this kept the night terrors at bay.

            Jean is substituting in chemistry today which is unfortunate as I was going to ask our regular teacher that he amend the new seating chart so I don’t end up stuck sitting behind Matthew. Matt, however, is getting a lot of enjoyment out of the new arrangement. Every time we’re supposed to be working quietly he leans his head back on my desk, covering up my work and grinning at me with that stupid face. “I can see up your nose.”

            I spin my pen between my fingers, telling myself to be patient, while harboring the urge to stab him between the eyes.

            “Matt,” Jean intrudes.

            He sits up genteelly and I know he has that obnoxious grin on his face when he asks, “Yes, Miss Grey?”

            “Stop flirting with Ace, she doesn’t like you.”

            “The whole point of flirting is to change that isn’t it?” he persuades.

            “That’s not how this particular venture is going to end,” she replies with a bit more passive aggression than I thought her capable of. We share a look, and I relax my grip on the pen.

            Jean goes back to helping a student, and Matt quickly scribbles something in his notebook and lifts it up so I can see it over his shoulder. I ignore him and keep working. He jars his seat against my desk, and kind of waves the notebook around. Before I have a chance to leave a permanent mark on the back of his peach-fuzzed neck Jean snaps at him again. He slams the notebook back on the desk and immediately assumes the appearance of studiousness.

            Tuesdays I have to drag myself to the Professor’s office before dinner and spend an extra hour being evasive. As I walk in, Xavier looks up and smiles at me. “Go ahead and stay standing, we’ll be moving this elsewhere for today.”

            He puts his desk in order, giving me a chance to look the room over. This is the office I visited on my first day here. The walls are lined with walnut bookshelves and there are tall, wide windows behind his desk that look out over the best part of the school grounds. The fountain and part of the garden are visible. I’d rather be out there. “I think I’ll just say this in every meeting from now on; you don’t want to know what’s happening in my head.”

            He stops what he’s doing to face me.

            I continue. “It’s not a pain I plan on sharing with anyone. It will go away on its own, and I won’t burden anyone with the responsibility. I do know what I’m doing.”

            “I trust you.” He nods his head at a little table set up across the room. “Have you ever played chess?” 

            “I’ve played…versions of it.” Dusty evenings aboard a wheezing junker, surrounded by companions with poor taste in strategy and even worse grace in losing.

            “Come,” the Professor says, backing up his chair, “we’ll go down to the one in the study.” 

            I missed this board the first few times I was here. Dust has settled thinly over the pieces, like a light snow upon a tense battle. The game has been in progress for quite a while, yet is far from over. From the lack of seating on one side of the board I understand that to be Xavier’s side. His opponent is aggressive.

            “Ace,” Xavier calls from the door.

            I take a mental picture of the board and hurry after him.

           

            Lately, Matt and his various companions have started to come and sit near me in the library. They become intentionally noisy and Matt, who always gets a seat in front of my armchair, is constantly leaning his chair back and hitting me in the knees. There’s no malice in anything he’s doing. He’s just enjoying being a jerk which is why I need to punch him.

            “You can’t punch him,” Logan says, “he’s got important family. You start trouble with him you start trouble for the school.”

            “So he can hassle me all he wants just because his parent’s are over-protective?”

            “No, he’s going to stop that,” he affirms, “but you’re not going to be the one who stops him. Now come down.”

            I twist my body halfway round to change my grip on the bar and swing down, catching the lower bar two feet away with my toes. I drop to it deftly without losing my balance, proud that I haven’t gotten completely out of shape. My bare feet slap against the floor of the Danger Room. “Can I do something harder next week? I can do better than this.”

            “Sure.” He raises an eyebrow and nods at the bar I just descended from, six feet off the ground. “You a gymnast?”

            “Something like that. Harder than regular gymnastics.” I point to my upper arm.

            “That hard, huh?” he says evenly as he eyes the white scar dashed just below my shoulder.

            “I’m kidding.” I nudge his leg with my foot. He snatches a strand of my hair and gives it a sharp tug. I can tell he wants to ask me something. I narrow down the number of things it could be before I settle on an obvious one. “Xavier thinks I need medication. He’s been trying to convince me of it ever since Jean gave me that checkup.”

            “Well you’re in luck for a while,” he replies. “She’s nervous about prescribing anything without your medical history to work off of. As for Chuck, he means well.”

            “I just don’t want him to know anything,” I concede.

            “Hell, you won’t even tell me what goes on in there.” He taps my head with his finger. “Must be worse than what I think it is.”

            “The only trouble on my mind is Larson.”

            “Forget about him. You could wipe the floor with him, but I think you’ve over-stayed your welcome in that category. What am I going to do if you keep alienating all your classmates?”

            I glance up. “Is anyone in the booth?”

            “I’m going to shut it down myself. Well, quit hangin’ around me. You’re picking up my accent, it’s weird.”

            “Oh, I sound Canadian, eh?” I try to flatten my voice and give it nasally edges. “‘You’re picking up my accent.’”           

            “Knock it off.” He smacks me on the side.

            “‘Knock it off,’” I try again, but accidentally slip into mimicry and play his voice right back to him.

            He stands at the exit, looking at me in confusion.

            “It was an accident, I’m sorry.” I wince then check myself. No, that was the right voice.

            “How do you do that?” he asks sternly.

            “I just- it’s- birds can do it. Mockingbirds or parrots.”

            “You learn from animals?” He stares at me as it collates.

            “Yeah. I- I think that’s how I got the claws.” I rub my hands together. “I’m just observant. I see an interesting skill and I wonder if I could do that too, but can’t know until I’ve tested it.”

            “Why didn’t you tell me any of this the other day?”

            “It was a lot to explain.”

            “These are things you should tell me.” He beckons me out of the room as he fiddles with the control pad by the door.

            The light of the hallway is white and sharp. I walk toward the elevator until the door to the control room has slid shut behind him, then backtrack quickly and rush to the doors at the far end of the hall. From the meager scents down here I can tell Xavier is the only one who visits the room behind these doors. They are large, round, and shining, and the blue orb in the center appears to be a sensor of some kind. I focus in on every detail, every seam and groove in the door, creating a mental blueprint of it. The sensor ignores me, I’m not what it’s looking for, but I study it thoroughly before straining to perceive the room beyond.

            There’s nothing inside. It’s a large empty room from what I can tell. But it’s meticulously designed and clearly important to Xavier. I suppose it might be something like the Danger Room, but they already have one room like that, why two? It must be something more important if Xavier’s the only one allowed in.

            I sprint back to the elevator, passing other unmarked doors in the hallway. Logan and Jean like each other, Logan and Scott don’t. Xavier is playing dangerous chess with someone and has a high-tech room all to himself. Every student, teacher, and laundry lady in this building has a bizarre deformity that allows them to do amazing things, and some of them even use their abilities to protect the outside world.

            And then there’s me. If my symptoms stem from chemical imbalances like the Professor says, then Logan’s healing ability must be what keeps him stable despite all _his_ traumas. Otherwise, his behavior should be just as erratic as mine.

            I lie in bed wondering how I can be so interested in the world yet so done with myself by wanting to know everything, but be nothing.


	6. Chapter 6

            I take a deep breath and press my claws into my skin. _Ow._ With a quiet hiss, I withdraw my hand. Within two seconds the five small punctures have healed. Looking in the bathroom mirror I am again surprised to see the absence of any blemish or mark. This plan may not work, but I’m already a fan.

            “Bwaha!” Matt flashes fanged teeth in my face before striding over to his seat laughing. He turns halfway and raises his eyebrows at blue-haired Lyndsay. “I’m a, sexy vampire.”

            “Okay, Larson,” Summers chuckles, “enough with the teeth.”

            During the notes a quarter rolls under my desk. I bite my tongue and ignore it. An eraser head bounces across my notebook. I aim the sharp end of the pencil at Matthew and he turns back quickly with a smirk. Scott looks up and I bite the end of the pencil casually. When he’s distracted I find the eraser head and throw it back pinging it off Matt’s ear. He gives me a surprised smirk over his shoulder.

            Hoping to avoid him in the library, I take up reading in the garden. The sun is setting as I start heading back to the mansion, when a girl walks up from the field. “Hey, you wanna race?”

            I look behind me. There’s no one else she could be talking to. “Where to?”

            “T’other end of the field and back.” She points.

            I look around again. “Okay.”

            She looks a little proud as she flips back her short hair. I set my book down on top of my sweater and follow her to the starting point.

            “On your mark, get set, go!”

            I cover ground quickly, throwing my legs out in front of me in wild strides. Halfway across the field the girl is at my elbow, only a few inches behind. Once I make it to the other side, I pivot and burst off again. I’m practically flying now as I glide into a runner’s high. I’ve just hit that speed where it seems not even gravity can hold me down, when a dizzying _whoosh_ of air causes me to lose a step. An unearthly blur speeds past me and skids to a grassy stop at the other end of the field. She turns, crosses her arms, and watches my progress with smug pity. I slow to a jog then walk the last few steps. A mutation that enhances speed. Cheap.

            “You quit?” she asks with derision.

            I study her face- flat blue eyes, beige freckles, sneer- and restrain myself. “I felt sorry for you.”

            “Excuse me?” she asks, uncrossing her arms.

            “You clearly needed your ego flattered and racing a snail wasn’t going to do it.”

            Red-faced, she exclaims, “Freak, I was here _first_. Feel sorry for yourself.”

            Grabbing my shirt, she hits me across the face, but I grab her by the wrist. Seething, she twists and jerks then bursts off running. Swept off my feet, I hit the ground hard, landing on my hand. As I sit up, I keep my senses busy making sure she isn’t coming back. My hand bent backwards when I landed on it and, while it isn’t broken, I grit my teeth from the pain of moving it.

            Bypassing Jean’s office, I take the stairs two at a time until I’m safely in my bathroom with the door locked. I poke my hand. No pain. I poke it again. No pain. I wave my hand all over the place, check my knees for scrapes, and my face for scratches. Nothing. Everything’s exactly the way it was.  

            _Ace._ The Professor’s voice seems to echo about the room.

            “I know, I know, head to Scott’s office.”

            _No, come to mine. We need to talk._

 

            I sit in Xavier’s office knowing full well I’m in some sort of trouble. “Does this mean I don’t have to have my session later?”

            He doesn’t reply, just stares me down gravely.

            “I didn’t hit anyone today.”

            “We’re not talking about a fight,” he replies.

            I clench the fist of my recently sprained hand. “ _You_ said it was a chemical imbalance, a physical thing, something that could be fixed.”

            “Not all of it. I warned you against this.” His brows furrow. “Logan’s ability will not solve your problems. Are you still capable of giving it up like you did in past?”

            “I wouldn’t attempt it. Professor, I thought I was _insane_. You have no idea what it’s been like-”

            “Last year was not the first time you met Logan.” He places his hands calmly in his lap. “You two met long before, and _that_ was when you first copied his ability. I have more ideas than you think. You’d do best to give me a bit more credit in future. Now before you blame Logan for betraying your secrecy I’d also advise you to give _him_ more credit as well.”

            There’s too much going on in this man’s head sometimes. “How long have you known?”

            “I inferred it when Logan spoke of you the first time. I knew for certain when I finally met you. May I ask, now, how old you really are?”

            “No,” my heart’s trying to climb out of my throat right now, “I don’t ever want to address that here.”  

            “I apologize. Have you told Logan at least?”

            He’s trying so hard to get into my head he’ll go through others to get there. “No, I have not told Logan, nor did I ever intend to. How often do you two talk about me?”

            “What did I just say about giving us more credit?” he chastises. “I need to know certain things in order to know how to help you.”

            This is the harshest he’s been with me yet. I grit my teeth, scuff my feet across the floor, fidget, anything to keep my anger in check. He continues, “Taking the easy way out by using Logan is going to breed more dire problems than you already have.”

            This wasn’t a fair fight to begin with, but now that I’ve evened the scales a little I get chewed out. “I’m sorry about the girl. I riled her up. That wasn’t the right way to go.”

            “I know,” he says plainly, “you’ll do better next-”

            His brows furrow and he quickly closes his eyes. A scattered static fills my head, the kind I tend to feel right before a hallucination. I close my eyes tightly, and put all my concentration into breathing evenly. I can hear Logan shout and Storm hurry down the stairs.

            “You must return to your room and stay there until dinner,” I hear Xavier say. “Later tonight after dinner, you will tell Mildred what you told me.”

            I assume Mildred is the racing girl’s name. I open my eyes and see Xavier still sitting there, no hallucinations in sight.

            “There’s nothing to worry about, it’s alright. The team is going on a mission, but won’t be gone long. Are you alright?”

            My head still feels staticky from whatever just happened, but I nod and exit the room.

            Motor memory leads me back to my dorm as I’m too disoriented to have found it any other way. I flop onto the bed belly first, and hug the covers until I get my bearings. I’ve felt that static many times before and it wasn’t because of hallucinations.

            “You’re not going to tell Logan, are you?” I ask the air timorously.

            _No,_ comes a cottony response, _you are_.

            My head aches and the cackling group of girls passing by doesn’t help matters. I groan into the pillow as my brain clutters up with the extra static.

            After dinner, I meet with Xavier and Mildred, apologize, and am sent back to my room while he talks to her. It’s obvious then that I am not the main subject of discipline. I also have an honest excuse to avoid Matthew’s upcoming Halloween party spectacle. They were setting up the cafeteria when I left, and I saw him hanging around the sound booth in the back hopping from foot to foot impatiently.

            I sit up waiting for the return of the team’s jet. I’ve been eager to see what she looks like. I didn’t even hear her go up she was so quiet. I imagine a strange twist in the wind is her return.

            I tiptoe out of my room in the dark and slide down banisters until I reach the first floor. Most of the students are already asleep, exhausted from the party, and the staff finished cleaning up an hour ago. My bare feet slap against the hardwood as I run to the hidden elevator that leads to the bottom floors. I stop before I reach it, wondering if it would be too forward to actually go down. Maybe I should just wait by the door, hide behind something? No, they’d know I was there.

            I notice there’s a light on in the living room where a news report plays on the television.

            _“…traffic, the fire trucks could not make it through. Astonishingly though, as the fire traveled through these five buildings, none suffered significant damage. Fire chief Brien Kirkpatrick stated…”_

            I’ve walked into the room by now to stand behind the couch. A redheaded sophomore boy watches the screen with boredom, a half eaten slice of cake sitting on a paper plate next to him. I sense a presence nestled in a corner of the darkened ceiling and glance up carefully. Just what I thought, another student up past his bedtime.

            “How long before they say how the fire started?” he asks.

            "They won’t,” replies Redhead flatly. “But if the X-Men stopped it, it was probably a mutant.”

            Ceiling Boy swells up with pride. “So you think it _was_ them, the X-Men?”

            “Wait, does that look like Scott?” asks Redhead, squinting. The screen has frozen during video footage from someone’s cell phone. A man can be seen leading another person out of the blaze of the first building. The man is tall, clearly wearing a strange leather suit like the ones I’ve seen downstairs, and there’s a conspicuous red gleam between his eyes.

            “It’s _him_ ,” whispers Ceiling Boy excitedly.

            Redhead blinks and the video begins playing again. It starts raining in torrents, the footage getting shakier as the bystander heads for cover. The boy on the ceiling is practically squealing, but I’m distracted by the sound of the elevator. Quietly, I make my exit.

            Dr. Grey looks absolutely exhausted as she leans on Storm, but there’s a joking smile on her face.

            “Oh, I’m going to,” Storm says determinately.

            Jean just laughs and Storm smiles, her white hair streaked with soot, her face haggard, but her arm firm as she holds Jean up. Almost at once they notice me. Storm leans in to Jean’s ear. “Should I go back down for Logan?”

            I bristle.

            “No, she’s fine,” Jean says then raises her voice to indicate she’s talking to me. “What are you doing up then, Ace?”

            “Watching the news.”

            “Alright, well don’t stay up too late.”

            As soon as they’re gone I slip into the elevator. Downstairs I can hear a shower running, and smell smoke strongly. I sprint toward the door I believe leads to the hangar bay. It’s code locked of course. I study the keypad for the numbers pressed most, laugh at myself, and phase through the door. In an instant I’m on the other side taking in the beauty of the sleek ship in front of me. Jet black with front thrust wings, a peaked bridge, and an intimidating elegance I can’t recall ever seeing before. The lights in the room are dimmed giving her a dull shine. I walk under her belly, and admire her ominous shell until the hangar door slides open. Aggravation stalks into the room. “Heard you got in a scuffle before I left.”

            “It wasn’t a big deal, I didn’t throw any punches.” I’m still gazing upward. “She’s gorgeous.”

            His footsteps stop. “Close your eyes.”

            I obey and he flicks the lights on. She looked bigger with them off.

            “This is our Blackbird. You like machines or just ones that fly?”

            “I don’t really care for either,” I slap the hull, “but I know a pretty thing when I see her.”

            He chuckles contentedly and runs a hand through his damp hair. “You go to the party?”

            “No, I was sent to my room.”

            “That’s a little harsh. I thought you didn’t throw any punches?”

            “Eh, yeah, I wasn’t really looking forward to the party in any case.” And, that wasn’t really the punishment. “Um, the Professor wants me to-”

            “Hey, where’s your scar?” He taps my shoulder.

            “It’s gone. They’re all gone.”

            “All- What did you do?”

            “I needed to,” I argue taking a quick step back. “It’s helping-”

            “ _No_ , Ace.” He looks around the room in frustration. “This is the wrong answer, this is- this is _cheating_. Get rid of it _now_.”

            “I can’t, I’m with you all the time-”

            “Get. Rid. Of. It. You don’t know what you’re doing you don’t know what it’s like.”

            “You don’t know what _my_ life’s been like.” My voice is rising, and I hate how shrill I sound. “I can make everything go away, I just needed this boost. I’ll get rid of it when I’m in the clear-”

            “Ace, there _is_ no clear,” he shouts, his voice echoing in the underground room. “It sticks with you, it clogs up your subconscious and waits for you, it waits because it knows you can’t die now, and it never, ever goes away. Do you understand me?”

            His eyes are wild, and I can’t help but think he’s overreacting. I have a flashback of standing in that cell with him telling me to hide under the battered iron door. I didn’t listen to him then and still got us out alive. I’ve been through oceans of worse since.

            “Logan, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have copied you without your permission, but,” I look down at myself, “this morning I felt for a scar I’ve had on the back of my head and it was gone. I felt…new.”

            I’m shivering. I think the room has gotten cooler, or maybe in my agitation I’ve neglected to keep my own heat in check. My teeth chatter and my hands shake. I can’t be getting sick on my first day with this thing. Logan doesn’t let go of me, and doesn’t look away, his face just falls slowly. “Ace, do you know what survivor’s guilt is?”

            I gulp. 

            “It’s when you realize you’re the only person left standing and you weren’t even trying. You start to hate yourself for it, for being so lucky, or for not somehow saving them too, or for any number of stupid things to regret. Every year you’re still alive it gets heavier on you, and for the rest of your life you will carry all those people around with you because you can’t let that guilt go, because you feel like you owe them your suffering. Is that what you want? Because that’s what you get when you can’t fuckin’ die.”

            I want to scream at him, to scream off all these years. “I can’t get rid of it if you’re always- No, I can, I can try.”

            His face is stern and pinched tight. “You better. I trusted you more than this.”


	7. Chapter 7

            Matt’s lunch tray slams down. “When are you going to talk to me?”

            Stirring my milk with a straw, I watch him take chicken strips off my tray one by one and eat them. By the last I think he’s forgotten he was doing it to annoy me and is just eating while playing an odd little nonsense tune; notes plucked from the air and pieced together.

            In my own bedroom I sigh, and as the sound hangs in the air I try to catch it like Matt does. My heart jumps as the sigh trembles unexpectedly. I sigh louder and hear a definite bend. Concentrating, I sigh one more time. It _booms_ within the room and I clap my hands over my ears. Carefully, I ease off the bed and am reassured to hear the springs creak at their appropriate volume.

            “Do you know what started that fire in the city?” I ask, retying secondhand sneakers in the control room.

            Logan arches a brow over his shoulder. “Who’ve you been listening in on?”

            I pull my jean cuffs down over the lips of the shoes. “Bobby was talking about an old friend of his.”

            “Geez, I forgot about that.” He finishes shutting down and turns in his seat. “Bobby was friends with a kid who could control fire; a dropout. His scent was up and down the backstreet, but that’s between us.”

            I nod.

            “How’s it coming getting rid of my power?”

            I chew my lip. “If I don’t use it in the next few weeks the neural path should wither away on its own.”           

            His eyes lower. “You can’t just tell your body to stop working one day.”

            My chest tightens. “I copied it I can get rid of it.”

            “What about your scars? You didn’t tell it to get rid of those did you?” His voice is rough. “You only wanted the hallucinations gone, but it’s already been doing things beyond your control.”

            Rising from my seat I hurry upstairs. In front of the bathroom mirror I scratch my face and dare it to stay that way. When it heals I scratch it again, rub it raw, and dig my fingers into my skin. The scraped skin refreshes leaving behind all the dead skin I removed.

            I do everything I can think of to stop myself from healing, even trying to reverse the mutation somehow. To this my body reacts violently, doubling me over in pain- the first and last time I will ever try that. Doors in my head swing open and all those decades weigh down on me at once, bringing me to the floor with my face in my hands. I can’t believe I did this.

 

            The Professor has ended our scheduled sessions, saying I should come and talk to him whenever I want to. Instead, I’m in the Danger Room before Logan tonight, having memorized his entry code and a number of other things on how to control the room. Playing it safe I keep it to the basic environment, no need to get myself banned from the room for being too ambitious.

            Logan arrives, but doesn’t comment.

            “There’s a combat mode,” I mention casually. Logan snorts, and I scowl. “I can do it.”

            “I know you can do it,” he replies. “I just don’t think you should be encouraged to be combatant. Look, I’m sorry what I said the other night. You’ve still got a chance to nip this thing in the bud. You did it when you were little after all.”

            I swallow and look back at the controls. “Things work differently when you get older.”          

            “I think combat sessions would be good for you,” he reverts. “It’d keep you from fighting other kids, be useful as an outlet.”

            “Can we do one tonight?”

            Logan thinks on it, then nods and shoos me out of the control room.

            He sets up an easy fight; a medium-sized room with two hostile figures. Soon both lie unconscious on the floor before dissipating with the program. After two more simulations like this, we call it a night. Logan guillotines the end off his cigar. “So who the hell taught you to fight?”

            Yawning, I try to come up with an easy answer. “Different people.”

            He scrutinizes me for the lie.

            Before fall break most of the students have already left to be with their families. Unsure if “break” means I also have to leave, I’m relieved to see other homeless students continuing life as usual. One evening there’s an abundance of hallway traffic. Curious and stupid, I stick my head out to see what’s going on, and learn that a Thanksgiving dinner and dance has been arranged. Much to my dismay Logan seems to think a dance is exactly what I need.

            “Go on,” he pushes me toward the auditorium, “you need to make some friends your own age.”

            “I’m not my own age,” I remind him, the heels of my sneakers skidding on the flooring. I may as well have said nothing.

            Exposed in the large, brightly lit room, I circle around to the food, take a little of everything, and pick the most unnoticeable table I can find. I’m irritated when I notice my plate is clean and I still need more, yet another side effect of Logan’s ability.

            After finishing my second plate I head for the exit, but Logan’s standing there talking to Storm. I head out onto the balcony to escape the rising heat as the dancing starts, and consider the odds of escaping down the trellis.  

            “I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Matt says as he approaches, “but the party’s _inside_.”

            This is followed by a giggle and a smack of candy-flavored lip gloss. I refuse to acknowledge either of them. Shouldn’t he be gone for the holiday?

            “Maybe everyone ran away when she showed up,” quips the wispy brunette on his arm.

            If I climb the trellis they’ll just ridicule me. Turning around, I point at her. “Hey, that’s not Lyndsay. Did you two break up?”

            “Lyndsay?” She drops her smile and sneers.

            “Oh, Lyndsay and I weren’t- We just-” But she’s already turned away in a huff. Matt groans in frustration. “Why would you do that?”

            “You’re trying to balance multiple relationships in the same boarding school, you don’t need my help messing that up.”

            With an exaggerated eye roll, he bounds off to retrieve his date. I lean over the railing again and double my efforts in finding an escape. The ivy itself is too weak, but I think the parent vine is around here somewhere, and if I take my shoes off I can shimmy down into the landscaping. Then Matt reappears.

            “Okay, look. I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

            The brunette isn’t with him this time. “Don’t start that.”

            “Start what?”

            “Charming me so you can get an easy date.”

            “I wouldn’t call you easy-”                  

            “It’s all you know how to do, you’re incapable of being genuine.” Rich whelps and their pseudo-friendliness. “Do you even have friends? You’ve been here longer than I have, yet the only person I see with you on a regular basis is the kid that floats, and he doesn’t like you very much.”

            Matt regards me as if I’m the strangest human being he’s ever happened to meet. I’ve had enough of being treated second-rate by children.

            “I don’t want to talk to you,” I tell him quietly. “Leave me alone.”

            I turn back to the dark and wait for him to utter his comeback and leave, but he just stands back there. I turn to tell him to get lost, when he leans in too close.

            He’s nursing his jaw and laughing before I even register hitting him. My cheeks burn, but I don’t relax my fists. He’s trying to speak, but can’t seem to manage the words through his laughter. I don’t have to take this.

            “Wait, wait, please,” he stutters out, “I wasn’t trying to kiss you, I swear.”

            “You planning on laughing some more?” I will hit him again.

            “No, sorry, really. Look,” he puts out a hand to prevent any further attacks, “I’m sorry. Okay, I like you. I mean I don’t _like_ you, but you’re cool.”

            I wipe my mouth with the back of my arm. “You sure show it in a stupid way.”

            “Yeah, well.” He rubs his jaw. “Hell, that hurt.”

            “It was supposed to.”

            “Consider it a success then. Now, what I was going to ask you; can I get you something to drink?”

            He stands in the pool of light from the multi-purpose room, still holding his chin like a confused child. A girl just hit him, but infallibly he still wants to get her a drink. I start laughing, and it’s such a pleasant feeling that I can’t stop. He starts laughing too once he’s convinced himself I’m not making fun of him. He’s just a kid.

                       

            We’re sitting at a plastic covered table eating pumpkin pie- I’d never had it until tonight. His slice is buried under a mountain of whipped cream that he continually refreshes.

            “Why aren’t you home with your family?” I ask.          

            “Oh, it’s a long story, but,” he sucks whipped cream off his thumb, “mom and dad went to Europe for the holiday- not for a vacation, my dad never vacations- and felt it would be _too much_ of a hassle to bring me along. So, I’m here. They try to do this every year ever since you-know-what.”

            I don’t know what.

            “You know,” he pauses to take a drink, “when they found out I was a mutant.”

            I bite my tongue with one of my sharpest teeth by accident.

            “Anyway, it’d be really lame at home. They’d invite a whole bunch of old people I don’t know, everyone’d get modestly drunk, and I’d be bored out of my mind.”

            He pushes aside his now naked pie and slaps his knees. “Okay, I need to dance, c’mon.”

            “What? No, go ask someone who actually wants to dance with you.”

            “I, well, yeah, but-” He makes a few more incoherent noises as he surveys the room. “There’s no one here I like.”

            I scoff. “I don’t even know how to dance."

            He pops out of his seat and puts his hand out to me. “All I’m asking is that you get up and do what you’re supposed to do over break; _have fun_. Also, none of these people can dance either. You’ll blend in perfectly.”

            I glance over the cluster of kids on the floor and have to admit he’s right. Ignoring his hand I reluctantly get up.

            We’re on the dance floor a full hour without a break. Matt is exhausted, but he laughs when I finally out-dance him. I know I must be making a fool of myself out here, but it’s worth it. My legs are numb when I finally stop, and the floor is moving too fast for me as I walk back to the table.

            Matt points a finger at me. “You said you couldn’t dance.”

            “I can’t.” I sit down next to him and grab the closest drink.

            “Well, maybe everyone else was so bad they made you _look_ good.”

            I laugh into my cup of cider. He licks the frosting clean off a cupcake then leaves the cake on a plate. “More cider?”

            I nod. He leaves and I see him look furtively about the refreshment table before taking the whole jug and walking back as casually as possible.  

            “You’re an idiot,” I say flatly.

            “Thank you.” He smiles before filling my cup, and then drinks straight out of the jug. “We’re going to be the greatest best friends ever.”

            I shake my head. “That’s a horrible idea.”

            “No, The Macarena was a horrible idea, but once it became an actual thing it was awesome. Some of the worst ideas have become awesome things, Ace.”

            Well, at least he’s finally remembered my name.

            There was little hope of losing Logan’s ability when I started my winter trip, and in the end I retained it. I was, however, surprised by how many mutants I found beyond the mansion. 

            Back home I swing open the door to my bedroom, and as soon as I step in something cracks underfoot. Like leaves blown in by the wind, a dozen CD jewel cases litter the floor. My only guess is that Matt has been shoving them under my door the whole time I’ve been gone. Gathering them up, I stack them neatly on the dresser before dropping my backpack to the floor and tugging off my boots.

            “Hey,” barks Logan.     

            Embarrassed, I confess, “It didn’t work.”

            “Yeah, I figured as much. Other than that, trip go alright?”

            I nod and smile a little. “How’ve things been here?”

            He looks over his shoulder. “I’ll talk to you in a little while, okay?”

            Alone again, I sit down on the bed and read the boxy handwriting on the cases- they smell freshly unwrapped. Is there any possible way I can avoid listening to any of this?

            My question is answered two days later when Matt presents a used stereo to me with a flourish. “Happy Not-Your-Birthday!”

            “Oh, thanks.” I look around my dorm to make sure there isn’t room for a stereo only to confirm that there’s plenty of room. “But uh, yeah, I don’t have a birthday.”

            “Seriously? Huh. Well, it’s your birthday today. Yay, you’re seventeen!”

            “Fifteen.”

            He blinks, then puts his gift down gently on the painfully bare dresser. “Whatever little baby person, I thought you were a junior.” 

            We spend the next two days listening to his music while he talks and I do my assignments. When he gets bored, we walk down to the fountain where he can drop gravel into the water and accentuate the _plop_. At first I think he might be showing off, but after a while I realize sound manipulation is just him thinking out loud. I’m reminded of the mutants I met outside the school and how nervous they became when their mutation appeared unexpectedly or when they simply felt it would. Matt oozes self-confidence, but this isn’t behavior he’d exhibit in the real world.

            One day after lunch, we’re heading for the library when Matt steps into a bathroom. “Wait for me.”

            I lean against the wall by the door. I’m surprised to feel the static again and shake my head to get rid of it.

            “You.” A boy about my height is staring at me stormily. “Why can’t I hear you?”

            “I’m sorry?”

            _“Sh.”_ He walks toward me with his head inclined to the side like he’s listening for something obscure.

            “If you have sensitive hearing my friend has a weird affect on sound.” I tell him. “That might be what you’re experiencing.”

            Ignoring me, he clenches his jaw then looks me keenly in the eye. “Think of a number.”

            “Oh, please.”

            “Think of a number,” he demands, followed by mortification. “Did you think it?”

            “Yes.”

            “Do it again.”

            “It won’t make much difference, I’m doing it on purpose.”

            "What?"

            “Are you a telepath?” He nods. “Then I’m blocking you out, sorry.”

            The bathroom door swings open. “Oh hey,” Matt beams, putting out his hand. “You’re new right?”

            The kid shrinks from his gesture and scowls as he walks away. I smack Matt. “Don’t _ask_ people that.”

            “Well, he is the new kid,” he replies as if that excuses it. “Wow, he didn’t look a thing like I imagined.”         

            “Yes, and apparently he can read minds, so _quit thinking_ about him.”

           

            Logan’s put in a good word for me, so Summers plans on adding me into team training this fall. I’ve got the summer to decide if I’m going to hate it, but he’s signing me up either way.

            I dodge a blow from a virtual enemy. I lash the edge of my hand into his throat, and smash his groin with my boot. He crumples with a chillingly life-like shout of pain and fades into the program.           

            “Get up here.” Logan’s standing on a hill waving impatiently, and a spray of dirt flies high above him. Once I’ve joined him at the crest, he begins heading down casually. “You know what to do.”

             “What’s that?” I slide down after him then duck in cover behind a large concrete block as something flies at me. It explodes the ground I was just standing on.

            “Follow instinct,” he says as he takes out a cigar.

            Abandoning the concrete, I head for the meager shelter he’s found behind a stone column, but he’s already moving forward. I follow his footsteps in the dust until we hear gunfire and then the two of us dodge in opposite directions. I can see him behind a squat concrete cylinder as I brace against a thin metal wall only an inch taller than I am. An ache in my limbs tells me I should’ve voted against this particular scenario. It isn’t as though I haven't already lived it.

            I turn my head to shout something, when a small projectile hurtles into my path. Reflexively, I throw up my hand. The projectile darts off in another direction and buries itself in a heap of rubble. Logan and I look at each other in astonishment.

            “You’re picking up powers faster than you’re saying,” he accuses.

            “I didn’t pick that one.”

            Another missile is coming our way.

            _“Ace.”_

            I aim, focusing on it like Jean would. It wobbles as it speeds down toward us, but doesn’t stop. Hitting the ground in a shockwave of debris, it detonates.

            Dirt in my eyes, ears ringing, and a searing pain in my head. Gravity pins me to this one spot leaving me dry-mouthed and paralyzed. Sound returns slowly, and the blurry world around me stops spinning in time for me to realize the pain in my head isn’t from the blast, but from the telekinesis.

            “Get up.” Logan is jogging off without me.

                       

With the session over we wipe away whatever blood one can acquire from a virtual battlefield, and I’m about to have my first taste of whiskey.

            Logan watches me none too proudly. “Should I be doing this?”

            “You just put me through a warzone and you’re not even going to let me have a drink?”

            His laughter releases from its trap deep down in his chest. “Well, at least with the healing you’re not going to get drunk.”

            I forgot about that.

            The burn was far more than I’d bargained for. A flaming rage screamed down my throat, burned past my lungs, and lit up my whole chest, settling with a sizzle in my stomach and a pungent swell in my nostrils. Oddly enough he doesn’t appreciate how fast I go for another drink.

            “Relax, you’ve got to let it sit for a minute or you’ll knock yourself out.”

            I take a shaking breath as my body and mind recover from that beautiful blast.

            He takes the bottle back. “You really need to find your own friends. You’re turning out too much like me.”

            “I'm getting there," I say, "and I have telekinesis now I can just take the bottle away from you.”           

            “Do that and I knock you out faster than another drink will.”

            I blink at him then _jerk_ the bottle out of his hand. It hurtles toward my face at the same time as his chair back hits the floor. I physically catch the bottle in midair right before it hits me, and try to duck the oncoming swat, but accidentally phase instead. I land on my butt with my head and shoulders sticking out through the seat of the chair. Logan growls, and I jump away quickly, but he grabs me and holds the bottle out of my reach.

            I sink my teeth into his arm as he is setting down the bottle. He snarls and unfortunately extends his claws. The bottle is slivered and the precious liquid gushes over the edge of the table and onto the floor.

            “I’m scalpin’ you next time,” he idly threatens. “You better not turn into an alcoholic after this.”

            “Hey, you said I’m turning out like you.” I watch cuts on my hands heal.         

            “I don’t count.” He pulls a thin shard of glass out of the back of his hand. “Do we need to talk about the telekinesis?”

            I shake my head.

            “Right.” He gestures to the mess. “I’ll get a broom and a rag.”

            As I bend down to collect the bigger pieces of glass, my head buzzes with static. I jerk away and hit my head on the edge of the table, bringing back the pain of whatever I strained. Dropping the glass, I sit back and hold my head in my hands as the static fizzles away again gradually. “Is the Professor talking to you?”

            “No.” Logan sets the broom against the table and drops something that clatters onto the floor. “What’s wrong?”

            “Nothing,” I say quickly. “I just, hit my head on the table. Did you find a dustpan?”

            He looks at me soberly and nods at it. We clean up the mess in silence.


	8. Chapter 8

            Matt is moping in the kitchen, dejectedly munching on a handful of roasted peanuts. “Sonic’s a cool name.”

            “No,” I say firmly. “I can’t call you Sonic.”

            He clicks his tongue. “Everyone else has cool names by now except me _._ ”

            “Cool being the operative word here.”

            He throws a peanut at me, I throw one back. He tries to take the bag, and I try to wrestle it away from him. Our tug-of-war continues until I hear a student in the hall say, “Hey, Mr. Summers?” and let go.

            Nuts fly everywhere, bouncing off cabinets and skittering across the kitchen floor. I don’t wait for Summers to investigate, I run for the back door and phase through it, snickering at the fact that Matt will have to clean up on his own.

            When I feel I’m at a safe enough distance, I sit down on a retaining wall. It’s warm for February, but the sun will set soon and take the temperature with it. For now, some of the younger students are playing tag in the yard, tripping over piles of crusty snow.

            Then I sense _him_ near me. The new kid, Vincent, comes around the corner from the south wing and stops to watch me. He’s done this at least twice since Matt annoyed him the other day. Static fills my head. I look over my shoulder at him, but he stares boldly back. When I get up to walk away, the static only increases. I shoot him a look.

            Someone flicks my shoulder and I spin around with a hiss. Matt sucks in his breath and steps back.

            “Don’t jump at me like that,” I snap. “I could’ve hurt you.”

            “I thought you could hear me coming,” he replies, scratching the back of his head.

            I look over my shoulder again, but the new kid is pretending to no longer be interested. He may not be able to get into my head, but I’m not so sure about Matt’s. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

            Everyone is outdoors, enjoying the temperature while it lasts. Vince tries to tune them out, focusing on his own thoughts like the Professor taught him, but it’s excruciating. The noisiest perpetrators both mentally and vocally are the girls. Each one checks out the prep, a few even tease him over their giggling friends’ heads. The prep flirts back, body lax and arms draped across the back of the bench, but never strays from the only girl who doesn’t flirt. Those two would stand out anywhere; him with the grace of a movie star next to her wiry, flat-chested figure. His spun sugar crown lofty above her coffee grounds hair, painfully straight and falling past her elbows.

            Vince turns onto the path that passes her bench, telepathy giving him a relentless migraine. He’s aware that it bothers her, but he doesn’t follow her often- and he too hates being stared at. It’s just that her empty head is an oasis from the mental noise that boxes his cranium 24/7. If only approaching her didn’t also mean approaching the rambunctious tangle of chords beside her.

            Prep is guffawing when Empty smacks his arm, an  uncommon smile on her plain face even as she sights him out of the corner of her eye. The cacophony of thoughts weakens as he approaches her, but already he dreads having to walk away. If he could just sit where Prep’s sitting.

            Vince spits at the guy’s feet and retains his pace.

            “Hey!”

            Guys like that don't follow up and risk staining their eighty dollar polo with nosebleed. Vince ignores him and cuts across the lawn, thinking distance from everybody will clear his head.

            Someone hits him hard across the backs of his knees. He hits the turf face-first, dirt under his nails, and the unfamiliar taste of grass on his tongue. Turning over quickly, he sees Empty standing over him, studiously curious like he’s not what she expected to find. She offers him a hand. Scowling, Vince gets up on his own. She crooks an eyebrow and starts to walk away- he’s gotten off with a warning- but Vince knows better than to let a girl think she’s won.

            A small crowd forms. It’s not his first fight, it should be simple, but his swings scratch the air, missing entirely as she will be in front of him one second, and behind him the next. Flush with humiliation, he drops his guard so she’ll creep close enough to finally hit him herself. Except she backs off too, waiting like she has all the time in the world. 

* * *

 

            He won’t walk away while this crowd is here and his reputation about to be apportioned out as tomorrow’s gossip. Breathing hard, he clenches his jaw and stares me down, flushed but staggering. A kid like him shouldn’t wear out this quickly.  

            “Everyone back off,” I shout. A few people repeat the command, and the crowd steps back a pace. The static fizzles, but I doubt that’s much relief for him. 

            “Logan’s coming,” booms Piotr, “so everyone go. Go.”

            The mention of Logan scatters the spectators while Piotr sits us down on the bench to wait. Matt joins us.

            “You’re the fighting girl too? I imagined you being hotter.”

            Logan’s going kill me. Piotr clears his throat, and when we see Logan storming down the path, I hastily apologize to Vince. Were he a cat he’d flatten his ears.

            “Larson,” Logan barks, “were you involved?”

            Matt looks at me and I shake my head. “No.”

            “Then get gone.”

            Matt flees, and a nod dismisses Piotr as well. Logan crosses his arms. “Who started it?”

            “He spat at Matthew,” I say. “So I knocked him down.”

            Logan looks between the two of us. “You defended Larson?”

            I narrow my eyes.

            “Fine. Saturday detention; Ace, you don’t go near the Danger Room till Monday. Detmer.”

            “Yeah, got it,” snaps Vincent, glaring up at Logan.

            “Let’s hope so. Stay away from each other until then.” He looks at me and jerks his head toward the building. “Get up there.”

            Logan doesn’t speak another word while I’m in earshot.

 

            Detention is held in a stuffy classroom at the back of the building. A teacher I’m not familiar with presides at the front, poring over the details of a lesson plan as the minutes tick by. Vincent is tapping his fingers against his desktop- busily ignoring the dog-eared notebook in front of him- when he leans across the desk separating us.

            “Why’d you say sorry?”

            I shoot a quick glance at our monitor. “Because I meant it.”

            “I’m the one that spat at your friend. I don’t see what you needed to say sorry for.”

            “Well, I said it. That crowd was my fault, and you got a headache from it.” The teacher doesn’t seem too concerned with us. “When there are too many people around, does it feel like your head is filled with static?”

            “Kinda, yeah,” he says in a surprised tone. “It’s like twisting Q-tips in your ears.”

            “Do you sometimes hear people say two things at once while they’re talking?”

            “Yeah, and it’s the creepiest thing,” he leans closer, “like having demons talk to you or something.”

            “Do you ever see images of what people are thinking?”

            As he thinks his brows lower, and his usual dour look returns. “No, I don’t think so.” He hesitates, “Do you? Are you a psychic?”

            “No. I thought I was just crazy.” I rub my eraser over a drawing on the desk. “But I do see images sometimes.”

            “But only when you’re around other people, right? And that’s when you feel the static?” I nod, and he nods back.

            “You’re not crazy. I mean, I _have_ known some actual crazy people, and you don’t fit the bill.”

            “I’ll believe you.” I smile. He smiles back, an actually sweet, boyish smile that lights up every corner of his face. You wouldn’t expect a smile like that from a person like him. “I said sorry because I saw one of your memories.”

            The smile immediately disappears.

 

            I linger after English until all the other students have left.

            “What can I help you with, Ace?” the Professor asks expectantly, collecting his papers.

            “I’ve been…noticing this static when I’m around other people.” I check his expression to see if it’s changed any. “It started when I was younger, but it has more presence of late.”

            His brows furrow. “I thought you had to study and mature an ability in order to use it. Did you meet a telepath when you were younger?”

            I choose not to answer this. “I only noticed it again once when you called the team for a mission.”

            “Yes, I remember, you were in the room. Well, abilities develop differently for each individual. ‘Static’ isn’t an uncommon term for the sensation a telepath feels when they encounter the brain activity of another person.”

            “Vince likened it to cotton swabs in your ears.”

            “He talked to you?” 

            I’m sure he’s aware of the fight. “When you were growing up were you ever scared by any of the things you discovered when you heard people’s thoughts?”

            “Yes,” he answers bluntly.

            There’s a stiff heat in my bones as events come back to me. “It used to only happen when a person was lying. They were good people, but I kept hearing awful things. I thought it was just me.” 

            “Are you hearing these kinds of things again?”

            I grind my teeth for a second. “No. No, I don’t know any liars here.”

 

            Vince walks up the patio toward me. Since detention he tends to appear right out in the open where I can see him instead of his usual haunt somewhere in my periphery. Now he stops, starts forward again, stops again, walks within a few feet of me and disinterestedly says, “Hey.”

            “Hi,” I reply, attempting friendliness even though Matt says I’m terrible at it. “You want to sit down?”

            He hesitates before accepting the offer. Settling uncomfortably into the metal seat, he looks around covertly.

            “Did anyone ever make you apologize to Matt?”

            “No,” he answers defiantly. “What are you his watch dog?”

            “I’m not trying to upset you.” Matt’s right, I’m terrible. “I was lectured about the whole thing and wondered if you got the same.”

            “Yeah, mutton-chops chewed me out.”

            “Don’t call him that.”

            “Why, you gonna attack me again?” He slouches in his seat and places his feet at a wide angle. “I hear Matt’s renamed himself. What is it, ‘sinus’ or something?”

            “Sonus.” He decided it was less tacky than Sonic. “Yeah, I didn’t exactly approve it.”

            “Jeez, that’s stupid. Why does every mutant need a special gang name? No wonder people are scared of us.”

            I quote our Mutant Studies, “Changing a name is a point of pride to some mutants.” 

            “So why did you choose _Ace,_ are you proud of what you are? Or did your parents name you that when they were hung over?”

            “Forget it, go away.” 

            “I’m not trying to fight with you I just asked why you picked ‘Ace’." He stands up. “Tell _Sonus,_ or whatever his name is, that I don’t apologize to stuck-up douchebags.”

            Vince stalked away minutes ago when Matt finally jogs over to the table. As he chatters, I try not to think about Vince. Fifth period rings and we’re getting up to go to class when someone shrieks. Fear levels spike in the group of students behind me. There’s a boy sitting on the ground, looking a little dazed while holding his head. His friends stoop to help him and things return to normal. 

            “Just a power slip.” I tell Matt.

            He brushes it off. Last week a different boy was balancing on a retaining wall, but when he jumped down he left a massive crack in the concrete. Two days before him a girl in the library sneezed and for several hours her skin glowed neon green.

            “Man, when I first got here I was a mess,” Matt tells me as we walk to class. “Sometimes my voice was so quiet I had to write down what I was trying to say. The rest of the time I had to walk and put stuff down quietly because if I dropped a pin in a _noisy_ room everyone had to cover their ears. I never wanted to leave my room, so I just sat in there listening to music with headphones so I couldn’t accidentally turn it up too high. Summers figured out I could control my powers better when sounds were musical, so he took me to the music room and had me practice on all the instruments. And now I’m awesome.”

            I shake my head as he swings open the door to my history class. “Of course you are, Matt.”

            “ _Sonus_.”

            As the door closes behind me someone lets out an exasperated sigh. Walking past Vincent’s desk I give him a dry look. A shock of mental static passes between us, and we both cringe. Leaning back, he looks at me in confusion, but I hurry to my seat and try to forget it happened.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graduation 2007

            "Everybody smile!"

            Bobby, Rogue, and two of their classmates grin cheesily into the camera, flipping tassels out of their faces, graduation caps akimbo.

            "Alright." Jean chuckles as she hands the camera back. The four graduates scamper off across the lawn.

            "Yeah, that'll work," she hears Logan say. "Someone's gonna knock that over, move it."

            "How's it coming along?" Jean asks.

            Logan gives the volunteers another apprehensive look. "Who voted for fireworks again?"

            "The seniors. They almost always pick fireworks." She observes his face carefully, looking for something. "How're you?"

            He raises an eyebrow nonchalantly. "It's weird meeting everyone's parents. And not meeting them."

            Jean lets out a deep sigh. "They don't really make it easy on you."

            He grunts in agreement. "How's Rogue seem to you?"

            There it is. "Happy."

            "Yeah," he says distantly. "And Bobby?"

            "He's handling it well, but I don't know for how long." Jean bends down to pick up an abandoned program. "Logan, she's fine. She knows her parents better than we do."

            "It's not fine, it's wrong. What kind of parent doesn't show up? They should be-  _Ace_."

            Ace is sitting at a concrete bench not a hundred feet away, and at the sound of her name turns her head expectantly.

            "Move on."

            Her shoulders slump guiltily as she moves around the corner of the building and out of earshot. Jean gives him a perplexed look. "You don't need to yell at her it isn't her fault."

            "It wouldn't be if she weren't trying. She has a look when she's listening in."

            "Ah, yes she doesn't have that look in class much. That must be why I'm not familiar with it." Jean smirks. "You were saying?"

            "Nah, it'll still be bugging me later," he replies, pushing the matter aside. "I just don't want Rogue to hurt."

            "I think she can take care of herself pretty well. Got into college on her own didn't she? And dragging Bobby in after her. I think she'll be alright." She nudges him with her elbow. "Besides, if Rogue feels comfortable leaving  _you_ I think that says something. You can't stop her from growing up, Logan."

            He smiles gently. "Wouldn't dream of it."

* * *

 

            I can't hang out with Matt. Apparently this is his last chance to kiss a certain senior girl, and I really don't want to be present when that backfires. After all, she has a boyfriend who can melt things with his mind. I don't know about the unwritten laws of high school, but anyone could tell you that's not a line you want to cross.

            Speaking of which, Logan does not appreciate it when people listen in on his conversations with "Jean". I wasn't trying to, they just happened to be within my range and I was bored. He didn't have to yell.

            It's not much more interesting on this side of the house. I'm discomforted by the presence of my classmates' relations some of whom are obviously mutants as well. The human parents, for the most part, have segregated themselves onto one side of the lawn and are watching the rest of us suspiciously as they urge their children to hurry up with the goodbyes.

            I climb through the forest of folding chairs to get away from them all, making it to the other side of the lawn before I realize I'm just further away from the mansion. I could've gone back inside. Matt dragged me out here and then dumped me as soon as what's-her-name with the boyfriend passed by. All I did was sit down to wait for him when Logan yelled at me and told me to move it, so now I'm stuck over here and will have to cross through the minefield of parents to get back.

            Then I notice the long, brightly packaged fireworks neatly stacked in a corner of the yard. I saw a few magnificent ones at New Years and I'd love to watch one go up in person. These are all small, though, nowhere near that caliber. I assume because of the forest surrounding us on all sides it pays to be careful with these things. Still, the mansion has acres of empty land to set them off on. I pick up a blue one, inspect the candy-wrapper packaging and imagine the beauty on the inside.

            The packages all have step-by-step instructions on the back. The warning label is intense. People leave these things around kids? I put one down quickly as I hear footsteps coming toward me in the grass.

            "Hey," it's just Bobby, "you want to send that one up? Here, lemme see it."

            I clutch the crinkly wrapping. "You're going to send one up now?"

            He shrugs amiably. "I waited until the last minute to pull a senior prank, sue me."

            He wiggles the fingers of his extended hand, so I give him the small firecracker. He looks it over judgingly before shaking his head and pointing to another one near it.

            "That one'll show up better in this light," he says, gesturing at the dusky sky. "You ever done this before?"

            I shake my head. Partially a lie.

            "Alright, well then this one's for you." He strips the wrapping off.

            Immediately I begin analyzing it, taking in every detail, every measurement, the length of the wick, the material of the casing, calculating how far, fast and high it will go given the design and the amount of combustible material within, and if I test the wind-

            "You're okay, right?" Bobby asks.

            It's like being tapped on the shoulder in a dark room. He gives me a curious look, then shrugs like it really doesn't matter to him whether I'm weird or not. We walk over to the bare patch of dirt where the stake is set up. To the right of the stake the lawn continues for a few yards before stopping at the low stone wall encompassing the gardens. A graduate leaning against the wall companionably mocks Bobby for his mischief, then calls a friend over to watch.

            "Alright, stand back," Bobby announces as he flourishes a match. "You never know when the manufacturer will have screwed something up."

            I step back, mentally taking note of the number of people who've stopped to watch. I'm used to listening for heartbeats and other sounds that would give me a warm body count, but the Professor has been teaching me how to control this mental static and now is a prime opportunity to practice. The world fizzles as he gives up on the first match and goes for a second. I let the static rise to a steady buzz, and with a bit of maneuvering manage to single out six minds. There's Bobby, three graduates, a relative, and...

            A sixth person doesn't fit. I try again as Bobby finally gets the third match lit. This telepathy is playing games with me, so I revert to my more experienced senses. No, there  _are_ six heartbeats, six different scents. I turn and visually count the people around us. Five. I turn back to Bobby as he kneels down to light the fuse.  _Six._

* * *

 

            "Jean? What's wrong?" Logan holds her firmly by the arm as her eyelids flicker and she holds her head with one unsteady hand.

            "I'm not sure exactly...I...Where's Bobby?"

            "He's with Rogue over by the-"

            "No, he's not. Rogue's with Kitty...They're not- He's by the fireworks-"

            Jean's alarm is innately felt by Logan, and in the same second they're both running. They turn the corner of the mansion to see Bobby bent down on the other side of the lawn, and hurry around the folding chairs to get to him.

            Too late.

            Jean tries to hold the explosion back as bystanders scramble to get away. Logan runs into the heat and grabs a prone Bobby by the arm. He looks as if he jumped clear of the explosion just before it went off, but his robe is singed in places. A graduate runs forward and takes him from Logan who turns back to grab Ace. Through his ringing ears, Bobby grasps hold of the situation, and reflexively throws a blanket of ice over the popping, spinning flames.

            Logan pulls an unconscious Ace away from the flames. There's a cut on her neck, and scorch marks on her skin and clothing. Safely away from the now smoldering epicenter, he lies her down in the grass, and clears hair away from her wound. Nothing happens.

 _"C'mon,"_  he growls.

            Jean comes to their side, out of breath. "Why isn't she awake yet, I thought she took your power?"

            She rips a bandage open and quickly places it on the neck wound, but is barely finished securing it when Logan lifts Ace up and storms towards the infirmary.

* * *

 

            The sixth one, he shouldn't be there, he's not-

            My head throbs. The atmosphere of the infirmary initially brings back unwanted memories, but they fade as soon as I sit up. Storm is speaking gently with a distressed graduate, as Dr. Grey smoothes out a bandage on Bobby's face. Two other graduates hold cold compresses to their skin, occasionally making pained faces as they adjust in their seats. Earnestly, my mind tries to collect the last few minutes of memory. I blacked out, clearly, and there was an accident in which students were injured. Bobby is giving me a concerned look and Dr. Grey turns to see, the match was being lit, and I was counting warm bodies. One, two, three, four, five...

            "For a minute there we were afraid the healing power didn't take." Dr. Grey smiles reassuringly as she begins to remove my bandages. She gently feels my neck with her gloved hand then looks me in the eye. "You pushed Bobby out of the way, you know. That was fast thinking."

            "What happened to my neck?" I ask, wiggling my leg. Ankle's in a splint.

            "You were nicked by something in the blast."

            "Big bandage for a nick," I mumble.

            She smiles. "Go wash up and find Logan, he's worried about you."

            I slide off the gurney, and except for a dizzy feeling everything has gone back to normal. Whatever that is. Bobby stops me before I get to the door.

            "Hey, hey, I'm really sorry. I don't know why it did that, that wasn't supposed to happen." His brows meet each other beneath the worry lines on his forehead. "Seriously, I'm so sorry. Thanks for pushing me clear."

            I shake my head more or less to clear up my thoughts. "There was somebody else there."

            He looks at me in confusion. "Yeah."

            I stumble out the sliding door. The infirmary is part of the underground infrastructure. It's at one end of this corridor, and the Professor's Cerebro faces it from the other end. I think he's inside right now.

            The guests have all gone, and the remaining students are sitting around looking very nervous. I notice they're clustered in certain hallways, but it isn't until the third group that I recall these to be the emergency exit points Summers showed me when I first arrived. I must not be the only one who thinks this wasn't an accident. However, Dr. Grey told me to wash up, so either she doesn't know what's going on, or it isn't an actual emergency yet.

            In the shower I watch streams of blood and soot wash down the drain. As the scene becomes clearer in my mind, I realize that of the people injured I was the closest to the explosion, and though it was small it was powerful enough to leave third-degree burns on individuals standing several yards away. Yet I walked out of the infirmary like nothing had happened.

            Dried and dressed, I head to the boys' dormitories where a helpful junior directs me to a bathroom. Matt sits on the floor next to the toilet, staring blankly ahead of him. I close the door behind me and he looks up at the sound.

            "I thought they'd come back," he blurts.

            "Who?" I ask.

            He swallows and makes a nasty face. "The soldiers or whatever. I didn't see them I just...I got out through an exit before they got to our floor. I didn't see them."

            "There aren't any soldiers." But there were once and that's more information than I want to know. "No one's attacking the school."

            "How do you know?" he snaps.

            "Because I was there, I just got out of the infirmary."

            "You wha-? I saw Bobby, he's burnt up."

            "Look, the point is I know we're not in trouble. Alright?"

            He looks flustered and kind of flails about uncertainly for a second before settling down again. "Alright. But how do you  _know?_ "

            Someone knocks on the door. "Er, Mr. Logan's lookin' for ye."

            "Thank you," I say over my shoulder. "Matt, I'll see you later tonight, okay? We'll watch a movie or something."

            "Quit calling me Matt, lady, my name is Sonus."

            Yeah, he's fine.

            Logan's waiting for me in the hall. He doesn't acknowledge my absent injuries, only says, "Prof needs to talk to you."

            The groups of worried teens have dispersed and the grad party is starting up without delay. I don't think there will be fireworks, however. Logan leads me to the study where all the X-Men and Bobby are sitting in earnest counsel. I'm directed to sit with Bobby on a couch facing the others.

            "Ace, I'm glad to see you're alright," says the Professor. "Bobby has already told us his side of events, now we'd like to hear your insight."

            I look at Logan.

            "Instincts, Ace. What happened?"

            "I told Bobby I'd never seen a firework go up. He was going to show me a small one, except he was having a problem getting the match to light. While he was busy I was counting the number of people who were watching us just to practice a few of my senses."

            The Professor nods.

            It's uncomfortable explaining this with the team's attention all on me. "There were six people watching us, but I could only see five. Then the wind shifted slightly and I could smell the extra person hiding in the gardens. Bobby had just gotten a match lit so I pushed him out of the way. The flame jumped onto the wick all on its own and engulfed the firecracker."

            "What?" asks Bobby in disbelief.

            "The match never got close enough to the wick. It couldn't have been your fault because you don't control fire."

            Maybe I should have kept that last part to myself. Bobby's face falls and goes nearly as pale as the gauze on his cheek. He looks at the Professor who gives him a morose nod.

            "He left campus a few moments after the explosion," he states gravely.

            "But why would he-" Bobby stumbles for the words, his eyes watering slightly as his face crumples in shocked anger. We sit quietly, the room a soft hum of static.

            Bobby's voice is firm and unreasonably calm as he finally says, "That was his senior prank. He did that just to... Please, don't tell Rogue."


	10. Chapter 10

            In the hallway, Rogue chastises Bobby’s ineptitude at setting off fireworks as she leaves multiple kisses on his undamaged cheek. Every now and then her touch causes him to twitch, but he’s enjoying it nonetheless.

            “Professor,” I step up beside his chair, “if you knew it was Pyro, why did you call me in?”

            “I didn’t know it was him, I merely suspected it,” he replies. “I needed you to confirm whether or not I was correct.”

            “Oh. I’m sorry then.”

            “So am I.” The skin tightens over his cheekbones, but the tension is passing. “Tell me, in your private studies how much have you found concerning a subversive group known as the Brotherhood?”

            “They advocate mutant supremacy, but they’re small- the news rarely has anything to say about them. Am I correct in assuming John Allerdyce is a member?”

            “You are, unfortunately.”

            “Do they have trouble with us?” It would seem unlikely what with it being a pro-mutant institution.

            “Their leader and I are, or rather were,” he says with a disheartened sigh, “good friends. We created this place. So, to answer your question, yes, _he_ has trouble with _me_. But it’s nothing for you to be concerned with, Ace, really. This was just a petty rivalry between the two young men.”

            I recall the chess set in Xavier’s office. “How much trouble will Bobby be in for taking the blame? It was partially my fault, he was doing it to please me, and I should’ve warned someone the instant I noticed something was off.”

            “The blame isn’t on him. He wants it kept from Rogue, let him.” Xavier nods down the hallway. “Now, go find Sonus- Oh, and keep him as far away from the dance as possible. A certain girl’s beau is on the lookout for him.”

            Matt is already waiting for me in the lounge with a stack of DVD’s, arguing loudly with four other boys over what to watch. I grab a random film and stuff it in the player. Before the movie’s half over, one of the boys falls asleep, and I find a Red Vine between the couch cushions. A rising chant of encouragement echoes around me as I gently place the dusty candy above the victim’s upper lip. It lays there like a long, greasy red mustache as the boys applaud.

            “No one’s said anything yet.”

            I swivel around.

            “It’s coming and the longer- we’ve already gotten- lawsuits-”

            “They’re out there- how are we supposed to stop-”

            Exiting the lounge, I tilt my head, so I can better hear what’s going on upstairs.

            “This isn’t a debate, Logan.”

            “No shit. Did you even see what he did to our kids?”

            “Well, that’ll help the school’s image.” Summers sounds sarcastic. “You losing your temper over-”

            “Both of you knock it off,” snaps Jean, her tone uncharacteristically sharp.

            “Logan, Scott,” commands the Professor in an equally upsetting tone, “we are all fully aware of the threat posed here-” 

            The sound of an explosion on the TV makes me jump.

 

            With the school year at an end students who are returning home are supposed to be packed up and ready to leave by a set date. Matt, however, seems to need my help in doing it for him.

            “Don’t you have a roommate who’s supposed to help you?” I say, following him to his bedroom regardless.

            Matt just snorts. “My ride’s supposed to be here at five thirty. If it has to wait, Dad threatens to give my Cali tickets to a hobo.”

            I come to a halt in the doorway of his bedroom, taking in the chaos as he traverses his personal minefield while rambling on about Santa Monica and Palm Springs. When he notices I’m still standing in the doorway he gives me an impatient look.

            “I have never been to your room before,” I say.

            He smiles devilishly. “Maids have been known to quit upon seeing my room.”

            Matt’s lack of cleanliness is apparently a trait shared by his roommate, Dylan. Dylan isn’t getting picked up until Wednesday, so he’s lying in bed playing Nintendo. After an hour of enduring his exclamations at the device, I ask. “Dylan, what’s your mutation?”

            “He fixes toasters,” answers Matt.

            “Screw you, I did that _once_ ,” retorts Dylan. “I’m a technopath.”

            Matt shrugs matter-of-factly. “Toaster-fixer. He can’t fix a computer, but he can fix toasters. Not helpful at all. I don’t even like toast.”

            “You like toaster strudels,” mutters Dylan, “those are cooked in a toaster. And I can fix computers, you just won’t let me.”

            “Yeah, cuz I don’t want to get toast crumbs in between the keys.” Matt drags a duffel out from under his bed. “They already have enough crap in them.”

            The town car pulls into the roundabout a minute before five thirty. A fresh round of hugs from emboldened girls and a meaningful “Good luck” from Summers, and Matt’s ready to leave. I walk out onto the portico with him as the car navigates the drive.

            “I’m going to miss you, Son.”

            “No kidding?”

            When the driver parks and pops the trunk, Matt leans down and kisses me on the top of my head. “See you next fall, grumpy.”

            By mid-June I’ve exhausted the supply of books in the library. Fiction was my last resort, but every time I pick up a novel I can’t get past the first page. Logan said I can continue Danger Room practice over the summer, and I have free access to the gym and the lake. A few electives like art and shop are ongoing, but none interest me.

            Reluctantly outdoors, I’m sitting at a bench blandly observing the landscape when I hear Vince approaching. Seeing no convenient way to escape, I accept whatever’s coming.

            “You look bored.” He sits down right next to me.

            I hold back a sigh. “What do you want?”

            “You know, there’s only so much swimming you can take before you feel like a human raisin.” He rubs the back of his hand on his jeans. “We should do something.”

            “I’m good, thanks.”

            He ignores me. “Let’s put soap in the fountain.”

            “That would be fun for five minutes and then we’d be in detention again.”

            “Buzzkill. Five minutes is better than nothing.” A sparrow lifts off nearby and he watches it go. “We could look for dead bodies in the mansion. I say we start with Logan’s office.”

            “Oh no, he doesn’t keep them there.”

            Vince laughs quietly. “Then let’s find where he does keep them, or at least his stash of combs to keep that hairdo going.”

            “He combs his hair with his claws, how do you not know that?”

            “Alright, alright.” He tosses a miniscule scrap of paper onto the concrete. “Then let’s just explore the mansion. It’s huge, that’s got to kill some time.”

            I shake my head and pull back my hair. “What have I got better to do?”

            I underestimated how big the building actually is. After we venture past the uninhabited dorms we enter a no man’s land of vacant corridors. Doors that blend in with the surrounding panels lead to forgotten classrooms and abandoned utility closets. Vince inspects all of them, even when there’s nothing to be found but dusty desks and forlorn brooms. Matt would click his tongue after the first door and wander on with his hands in his pockets. Vince takes every opportunity to investigate, walking up and down desk aisles, reading left over notes on aging chalkboards. Even in the smallest closet, he’ll duck his head in and look around as if expecting to find some clue or message left just for him.

            We wander wordlessly. I become entranced by the flow of the wood grain in the flooring, the curves and loops like long, arboreal fingerprints. Vince cuts back and forth across my path jiggling doorknobs on both sides of the hall. I’m considering kneeling down to spread my hands over the smooth wood when Vince waves to get my attention.

            “Over here,” he whispers, pointing through an open door.

            Looking in, I see a flight of stairs leading up to another door.

            “Come up with me?” he asks.

            The staircase leads to a typical stuffy gable. I walk over to the window to see if I can recognize where we are from outside, but all I can see past the eaves are treetops. Lifting the sash with some effort, I stick my head out. Ground level there’s a narrow stretch of manicured lawn and a trimmed hedge, but it appears to be an area otherwise ignored. Beyond that stretches the seemingly endless acres of woods, dense and inviting.

            “What’s it look like?” Vince asks, crowding me at the window.  

            I climb out, bracing one foot against the lip of the storm gutter and gripping the eaves with both hands. Vince is close on my heels, and just as I’ve perched safely on the peak, he’s made it up the slope too. I half expect him to continue on and explore the rest of the roof, but instead he settles down beside me.

            The air isn’t as humid up here. It’s shady enough on this side of the roof to still feel like early morning, but warm enough to make one sleepy. I shift against the shingles and lean back. A breeze disturbs the endless treetops and Vince sighs peacefully. Closing my eyes, I brace my feet at angles so I can’t accidentally slip off. I hear Vince copy my example as he leans back as well.

            Another happy sigh. “What are we doing here?”

            I open my eyes. “Do you want to get down?”

            “No. Forget it.” He yawns. “Ugh, I hate getting up early.”

            I’m dizzied by how close I am to the sky. It wants to eat me up, lift me off the roof, and float me back. The trees murmur under their breath before resuming straight faces.

            “I’m here because it’s not elsewhere.” I readjust my feet. “This is also the first place that offered a room without me having to ask.”

            Vince turns his head. “I didn’t really have a choice. I got arrested, pissed off a cop, and Xavier stepped in out of nowhere and got me sent here.”

            I raise an eyebrow. “May I ask what you got arrested for?”

            “Coke. Not even possession, just ‘intent to distribute.’ Yeah, not a lot of rules were followed that day.”

            “So,” I keep my voice mellow, like I’m just barely concerned about the topic, “you were part of a drug deal but didn’t have any drugs on you?”

            “My cousin took me along to his dealer buddy and that’s when the cops showed up. I’d had the stuff before, didn’t like it, and was too pale to make a good runner if you know what I mean. I thought if I took drugs it would…like it would kill brain cells, right? And I thought maybe I wouldn’t have to hear people’s thoughts anymore, you know?” He shakes his head. “It just made them worse. Don’t tell anyone.”

            “I won’t.” I rest my elbows on my knees. “What were things like for you before your mutation?”

            “Fuck off.”

            “I’m serious. I can’t remember not being like this. I just wonder what it’s like.”

            He rubs his eyes. “I don’t know. It was quieter and less weird, but not much different.”

            The memory returns, fleeting, painful. I let my feelings ebb and flow until the static dims. “Did you ever hit him back?”

            Vince jolts and looks at me, but I don’t meet his eye. After debating with himself, he says, “Yeah. He left right after that.”

            Normally I wouldn’t have given that up, but he knows why I did. Aching minutes slouch by.

            “Let’s not go back in,” he says. “Let’s just stay up here all day.”

            “It’s going to get hot.”

            “We can take it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and please comment & review! I would greatly appreciate feedback.


	11. Chapter 11

            The book lands on the table with a smack. Vince laughs out loud, and I grin. Trying again, I focus completely on the book as he tilts his chair back. The book lifts up three inches above the tabletop and hovers. Smiling, I look to Vince, and the book goes flying toward him. He crashes backward with a shout, and the book skids across the next table, landing with a flutter onto the carpet.

            “The hell was that?” he says as he gets up.

            “I didn’t do that on purpose, I swear.” I try to catch my breath from laughing so hard.

            “Uh-huh, sure,” he mutters offhandedly as he picks up the book. He leans across the table to hand it to me, then changes his mind and holds it out flat on his hand instead. “Take it.”

            I give him a look, but he merely bounces the book in his hand. I lay my hand out flat like his. “We’re practicing your telepathy next.”

            Between breakfast and lunch we talk on the roof or waste time in the library. After dinner we go out on the lawn where fireflies are abundant after sunset. Neither of us had ever seen one before. If we stand still long enough they eventually land on us by accident, and then walk around like we’re as good a perch as any. Last night Vince ran up to me holding out his hands- a dozen little flashing lights crawled lazily over his palms and between his fingers. Giggling quietly, he watched his hands flicker. “They tickle.”

            He continues to surprise me.

            “Alright,” I put the book back on the shelf, “now for your ability. The Professor’s been training you, right?”

            “Yeah. So far we’ve gotten the static to be more of a background thing.” He scratches his chin with one finger. “It’s working sorta.”

            I push in some chairs before I leave for Danger, “Is he helping you make your own thoughts quieter?”

            “Yeah, in a way.” He opens the door to the hallway. “Could I make that black hole thing you have?”

            “No,” I furrow my brow, “it took years to develop, and I had a lot of outside help. Anyway, it’s the small, stray thoughts that I hear from you the clearest. You’ve said that’s what you hear most too, right?”

            He nods. “Xavier’s teaching me how to move _around_ them like they’re people in a crowd.”

            “His analogy? I like it.”

            “Yeah, he knows his shit.”

            “He also does not appreciate swearing in his-”

            “Yeah, thanks, I know that, okay?”

            “In any case,” I continue, “there are ways to keep those same thoughts to yourself in case another telepath is nearby. Xavier will get to that soon I imagine because I can’t hear anything he thinks- just some intense static.”

            “Yeah, it’s the same with Grey; she drowns out most of the chatter and just causes interference.”

            “She does.” I consider bringing something else up, but think the better of it. “Well, simple thoughts can go in the background of your own mind as well. You’ve got several layers of thought going at once and you can keep the foremost ones quiet pretty easily. I know of non-telepaths being trained to do it, so it’s not complicated.”

            We get to the elevator and he presses the button. “Regular people? No kidding, why?”

            “Same reason, to keep out telepaths.”

            “No, I mean why do you know stuff like that?”

            I hesitate before I answer, “I’ve studied it.”

            He sort of laughs under his breath. “You _are_ a geek.”

            “I don’t swallow live frogs.”

            He looks at me like I’m a freak nonetheless. 

 

            Logan growls. “Should I even bother regulating what traits you pick up?”

            I blink and arch a brow. “Have you been doing that all along?”

            Scott just shakes his head as he works the Danger settings. Logan glowers at him over his shoulder. “Do you have input here?”

            “Sure, but you’ll just turn it into a fight that will undermine-”

            “Good.” Logan turns back to me. “You, get in there.”

            I hurry to, trying to avoid the argument about to erupt. With any luck Scott will start the simulation before the fight and I can get on with it. It was funny last time because when I finished and returned to the control room they had a panicked look as they’d both forgotten I was in there.

            _“Hey, hey, hey.”_ The scenario shuts down as Logan barks over the speakers. “What are you doing?”

            “What?”

            There’s no reply. I know full well what I was doing I just didn’t think they were paying attention. My many wounds sew themselves back up, and I suck the dried blood off the back of my hand and wait for them to return me to the melee. Shifting my weight, I nearly fall over as my leg screams in pain. After that, I only allow gentle pressure on the balls of my feet so the leg muscle can heal. I can’t hear through the room’s walls, but I know they’re seeing this.

            The scene digitizes then returns completely in pause mode. Shrapnel hangs deadly in the air and the metal panels around me are pockmarked with bullet holes. Discerning that my leg has healed, I correct my stance. The shrapnel slices past my face and the scenario begins again.

            Today is when Scott decides if I should take part in team sessions. More importantly, he decides if I get to use the room monitor-free for the summer. Due to all the arguing, I’ve been completing missions in my own way under my own judgment, just making sure to finish up in record time. Unfortunately, today one of them noticed what I was up to. Neither instructor is fooled as I enter the control booth the picture of tact and responsibility. Their reactions, however, are unexpected.

            “Just be careful in future,” says Scott.

            “Don’t go so rough on yourself,” adds Logan.

            Their tones are softly stern, both holding back from saying what they really mean.

            Before getting in the shower, I search for evidence of my injuries. The suit they send me in is disappointingly effective, made of a flexible, bullet-proof material that absorbs most of the damage. I’m not trying to hurt myself, but I’d rather I took the blows. They mean something else now that I don’t have to avoid them.

            Dressed for bed, I steal across the side lawn to a small knoll where I can just make out the form of someone lying in its shadow. I lie down next to him and blow gently upon the lights crawling over his torso.

            “Don’t do that,” cries Vince. “They were happy there.”

            “They’re not going anywhere,” I assure him as the fireflies continue on unperturbed.

            He lies back. “You smell good. How’d it go?”

            “They noticed.”

            “You got hurt?”

            “I sprained a leg muscle.” I place my finger in front of one of his fireflies. “A few cuts, a little blood, not much else. All healed.”

            “Huh,” is all he says. The firefly meanders over my finger and back onto his t-shirt. There’s no moon tonight, just stars. The knoll we’re seated on is far enough out of the light from the school’s windows that we are in a concealing darkness.

            “So, what else can you do?” Vince asks casually. “I know you’ve got a ton you’re keeping secret.”

            I don’t reply.

            “Alright, fine.” He checks to see how many bugs are still on him before straightening out his shirt. “I’m going to pick an ability, and you’re going to tell me if you have it or not. Ready? Super strength.”

            I snort. “Have you _seen_ me?”

            Vince pinches my arm. “Yeah, okay. What about that, um,” he waves his hand parallel to the ground, “where you can write on a piece of paper without using a pen?”

            “No, I’ve never been able to do that, but it’s incredibly cool.”

            “Would you copy it if you saw it?”

            “I’ve heard it’s heavily influenced by emotion, and I don’t want my feelings to end up written on the wall.”

            “Can you,” he pauses as he considers the possibilities, “predict the future?”

            I shake my head.

            “Create force fields?” When I nod he jerks his head to look at me. “No shit?”

            “Language. Yes, I can create a force field.”

            “X-Ray vision?”

            “To an extent.” I push my hair behind my ear. “I used to use it to check for internal injuries. I can’t see through walls or anything.”

            “How about shape-shifting?”

            “Shape-shifting is a pain.”

            “Does that mean you’ve done it before?” he asks hesitatingly.

            “Just once completely.” I’m uncomfortable with how many he’s getting right. “The next morning when I changed back my skin was loose. I haven’t done a complete change ever since.”

            “A complete change,” he echoes. “What about something smaller scale like just changing your face?”

            “Of course, I’ve changed my facial features pretty often.”

            “Why?”

            I hold my tongue.

            Vince licks his lips. “Could you change your face right now?”

            “To look like who?”

            “Anyone, I guess. Does it always have to be somebody you know?”

            “No, I can invent someone.” Carefully, I manipulate my facial muscles as I tilt my head towards the light. When I glance at him he’s cringing slightly.

            “How do you change your bone structure?” He curiously pokes my lowered cheekbone.

            “Practice and concentration,” I reply. “It hurts though.”

            “Oh, well then change it back.”

            I wince as everything eases into its rightful place. “Why do you want to know everything I can do?”

            He shrugs as he sits up too, fireflies nonchalantly ignoring the change in physics. “Because you’re incredibly cool. But don’t tell me it isn’t playing hell with your genes.”

            “Thanks for the useless warning, Professor.”

            He scoffs and goes to punch me on the shoulder, but changes it to a hesitant tap instead. “Don’t call me that. Hey,” he flips his bangs out of his face, “does he know you can shape-shift?”

            “He does now. I haven’t changed my face like that since I was at least twelve.”

            “Not even Logan knows?”

            “Well, no. I don’t tell him _everything_.”

            He flips his bangs out of his face again. He could use a haircut. I could never convince him though. “Professor’s always trying to talk to me too. I have to go talk to him every Sunday. It’s creepy.”

            “Well, he is trying to help, but-”

            “And that’s another thing, what is with everybody here trying to be so goddamn _helpful?_ What do they want? I’m not good at anything, I haven’t done anything, and I’ve got nothing anybody wants, so why-”

            “You’re alive.”

            “So?”

            “So? That’s all you need to be important to people like them. They’re not trying to extort you, I have even less than you do, Vince, yet they’ve put a lot of work into me. I can’t see any other reason why, so they must just care. There _are_ people like that in the world. Why make a place like this if you don’t care at least a little?”

            “There’s another thing.” He encourages the bugs off his shirt. “So we’re here away from humans, right, because humans are retards who want us all in jail, or whatever. So why do the Professor and other teachers want to be all buddy with them?”

            “I don’t know, Vince.” I rub my eyes. “Probably for the same reason they care about you, they just value life in general. You can’t say there’s anything wrong with that.”

            He sighs unsatisfactorily and looks out over the lawn. “Whatever.” 

* * *

 

            He turns back to see her with her hands held out in front of her, inspecting them.

            “Which leg?”

            She looks up momentarily and wiggles her left leg. Vince nods. She puts her hands down and stretches out the leg, feeling the muscle. “It didn’t feel broken, just weak.”

            “They letting you in anyhow?”

            “I suppose so.”

            “You going to be gone all the time then?”

            “Well, I’m not the only one who uses it.”

            He can barely make out her profile in the light from the windows. Her nose is sloped and her lashes are stiff. There’s a gentle outward curve to her forehead and a sharp jut to her chin. Her hair hangs heavier than usual, still damp from her shower he expects, as its usual flat strands hold together in thick locks. A firefly lands on her head and wanders calmly. She could avoid the damage if she tried.

            “How bad can it get in there?”

            “Well, it’s the Danger Room,” she says sarcastically, pulling her legs back up and crossing them. “It’s not programmed to kill us, but it tries very hard to when you let it. You don’t have to let it though. It’s just fun.”

            He holds back from teasing the insect out of her hair. “It’s fun to get hurt?”

            She turns her head again to look at him and the bug moves out of reach. “No, it’s not.”

            “How did you pull that muscle in your leg?”

            “Vince, I don’t need there to be three of you monitoring my work.”

            “Maybe you do.”

            She looks away again and the bug lifts off on its own. Her pajamas are a pair of grey campus sweatpants and a white tank top with faded pink hibiscus flowers printed on it. White bra straps are loose against her shoulders and he glances at her chest for all but a second before looking away quickly. Vince clears his throat.

            “Can I come in and watch you, you know…when you practice?”

            She hesitates. “Maybe.”

            “I’m not going to hassle you or anything.” He picks at the grass. “I’m just curious.”

            “I’ll see if it’s okay,” she replies.

            Vince sighs through his nostrils and lies back to stargaze. She looks down at him, unconcerned with whether or not he sees her looking.

 


	12. Chapter 12

            Xavier exits Cerebro in an uneasy state. For weeks he’s been attempting to pinpoint the whereabouts of the Brotherhood, their presence always obscured by an untraceable source of telepathic interference. Finally tonight he found a small group on the move in Virginia where a university had recently released the results of a controversial study into mutant genetics. Knowing it’s not something the brethren will take lightly, Xavier has no doubt his team will intercept them before trouble breaks out. Thus that is not the cause of his current anxiety.

            Nearly all of the team’s recent missions have shared a similar theme: the Brotherhood. They are growing; even a quiet girl could tell him that. And did he not already know? Who else but he knows the power of sage persuasion in a man such as Erik Lensherr?

            Charles always knew Erik could rally, Erik had the gift. Masses could follow him, mutants lead out of the dark and into the accepted folds of society. Yet, he chose the only model he knew for a leader, a model that had corrupted him body and soul in ways he could not see. Xavier should have seen it at least, seen the rot growing in angry, fetid coils inside his friend. Even now, he still believes there is a way to save him, yes, there has to be. No man is made that gifted, that passionate, only to use himself as a vehicle for destruction and disorder.

* * *

 

“Well, there was never much to me and my dad, you already know.” Vince is tapping his pen against the tabletop. “And mom, well, there was less going on with mom.”

            “Was she hard on you?”

            “No, no, that would’ve meant noticing I existed.” He shrugs, hasty to get off the subject. “Eh, she’d just drink when she was around. I was the only person living in that house most of the time. Well, ‘cept for my sister.”

            “You have a sister?”

            “Half, she’s not my dad’s. No, they took her away when I was eleven. She was…four? I don’t think she remembers me. I wasn’t a good brother anyway.”

             It’s less than a week until school starts again, and having run out of ways to amuse ourselves, we’re playing Squares to kill time until dinner. The lonely sheet of paper between us has a small rash of geometric fragments invading one corner.

            “So,” he asks wearily, “what about you, what are your parents like?”

            “They’re all right.”

            He stops tapping his pen and observes me carefully.

            “Yes, I lied.”

            He starts tapping again. “They aren’t as bad as mine at least?”

            There are too many ears in the room. I dig my pencil into the notepad. “You know when the Professor talks in your head? You think you could do that?”

            He bites his cheek and gives me a silent no. “Could you? Maybe you’ll hear me.”

            Plausible. I try to concentrate the way Xavier does. Vince blinks in confusion then looks straight at me with a sort of bemused expression on his face.

            “It worked?” I ask.

            _I think so_ , I hear him think.

            It sounds distant and foggy as the static between us crackles quietly. A tremble of delight goes up my spine and he ducks his head in quiet excitement. _So_ _you can’t remember them?_

Mentally I stutter. Xavier’s is a strange ability and it’s not cooperating with me.

 _What?_ He furrows his brows. _I can’t hear you._

I let down my guard a little, so he might hear what I’m thinking instead. _I can’t mimic Xavier’s power._

_Jeez, you don’t have to yell._

_Sorry, didn’t know if you could hear me._

He chuckles. _So,_ _your parents?_

_I’ve never had parents._

_Well, who raised you?_

Automatically my guard goes back up, and it takes a minute for me to calm my nerves enough to let him in again. _I was adopted. Essentially._

Vince looks at me thoughtfully. “What were they like?”

            “Orderly and religious.”

            He scoffs. “I had a foster family who were religious nuts. They stopped trying to take me to church after a while though, thank god.”

            “Mine were logical and proud of it, yet highly superstitious. They had a different spiritual reason for all my problems. They thought my nightmares were caused by an evil entity who was trying to turn me on myself.”

            “Wow, that’s a leap. Why the hell didn’t you get out of that freaky place way before?”

            “I believed them up until then.” I return to our abandoned drawing game.

            “Have you ever tried to find your parents?” The pen starts tapping again.

            “No.” Taking the graph paper, I begin folding it.

            “Are you curious-”

            “No.” Folding and folding until there’s a dense square of paper in the palm of my hand.

            “Is the religious family looking for you?”

            Taking two corners from inside the square, I pull, and the whole piece gradually unfolds again.

           

            Logan, harried and cranky as schooldays usually make him, surprised me this morning by ruffling my hair as we passed in the hall. Vince managed to sleep through breakfast which avoided me having to introduce him to Matt right away. Matt actually spent most of his early morning rehashing with other friends while I sat alone.

            At lunch I am again by myself at a patio table when Vince finally shows up, sits in Matt’s seat, and raises an eyebrow at me. “Why the heck are you sitting out here, it’s horrible.” The humidity has frazzled the ends of his hair.

            “Someone got a haircut,” I observe.

            “Eh, yeah.” He brushes a hand over it self-consciously.

            Out of the corner of my eye I see Matt heading our way. No need to hear his thoughts to know what he thinks of this. Vince can hear though. “Don’t worry, I’ll get out of your chair, but first, why do they call you _Son?_ ”

            Matt sets his books down on the table. “Why do I feel the urge to call you-”

            “Knock it off.”

            Vince glowers at Matt. “Up yours, trust fund.” They stare each other down.

            “Oh, just kiss already,” I say disgustedly, borrowing a euphemism from Logan. Matt unwisely breaks eye contact long enough to grimace at me, and I immediately grab Vince’s wrist before he hits him.

            “Cut it out,” I tell him sternly.

            Vince jerks his arm away. “Whatever you say, bosslady.”

            “Cut it out,” I repeat looking him in the eye to make sure he understands. He clenches his jaw, but stays in place.

            I pull up another chair and Matt sits down with an attitude, sliding his food over to his side of the table and making sure to knock it against Vince’s. Lunchtime is tedious until the bell rings. My next class is with Vince, so he walks with me, thoughts tumbling around with wrathful undertones.

            _Please don’t fight with him._ I ask.

            He shoots me a suspicious look. _Are you still telling me what to do?_

_I’m asking, please._

Swearing under his breath, Vince rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, okay.”

 

            First team session in Danger went as charmingly as could be expected. I hunch my shoulders as Logan approaches.

            “You don’t need to yell at her,” Scott informs him, “it went fine. There was a mishap, but she and Terry pulled through it.”

            “Then I’m not talking about that am I?” Logan snaps. “She knows what I’m talking about.”

            Scott looks between us, and I more or less indicate that I do. Once he’s gone, Logan continues to glower at me.

            During the simulation I let myself get in too deep just to see if I could. Terry, misreading the situation, blew my aggressors away with one of her magnificent screams, but since no one told her about my sensitive hearing I went down before my opponents did. Cyclops had to prop me up as I regained consciousness, my eardrums taking their delicate time to heal. I ended up missing most of the class.

            “I didn’t do anything.” I shrug.

            Logan grits his teeth, and, taking me by the shoulder, leads me down the hall to the hangar. Before the door has sealed behind us, he begins.

            “I know you’ve decided not to care what happens to you, but you scared your teammates. First day in and you’ve already done something hotheaded. You put Terry in danger, you made Scott babysit you-”

            “Hey, it would’ve been fine if somebody had told her not to scream at me-”

            “Don’t interrupt me. She’s still getting used to her powers so she gets that excuse, but you? You knew better. When you’re on a team you do not make yourself a problem so that everyone else has to carry your weight-”

            “Crap, Logan, I know how to work on a team, alright? I’m done with teamwork, and I’m done looking out for people who can’t look out for themselves.”

            He grabs my arm as I storm for the door, wrenching me back. “Hold on, you’re tired of looking out for people smaller than you? Are you? I’ve got news for you, bub, everyone is smaller than you, and the day you realize you’ve been given something they haven’t-”

            I roll my eyes and groan. “Yes, I know, we’re all so special.” I jerk my arm out of his grasp. “If I should know better than some kid not to let my powers get away from me then let me run my own life.”

            “Let you run your life like you were going to when I met you at the lake? Were you going to take good care of yourself then, Ace?”

            My face grows hot. “What do you care? You’ve got a whole school full of kids here, why worry about me? They need you more than I do, go bother them.”

            He leans down to look me in the eye. “Ace, you’ve been alone for a long time now, probably even when you were with people. But that’s not the case anymore. Everyone here is invested in you, and no one on that team is going to up and die any time soon unless you let them.”

            Now I scowl. “Who do you think I am? I can’t protect them. If a bomb hit the school right now who’d be left standing?”

            Logan’s face turns to granite. “It wouldn’t have to be just us.”

            I clench my fists and bite down on my lip as hard as I can.

            He swears thickly under his breath and starts searching for a cigar. “You don’t have to be in the damn class, alright? But don’t back away from something just because your past tells you to. You’re not living there anymore.”

            Easy to say when you can’t remember yours.


	13. Chapter 13

           Xavier’s school could never be accused of taking education lightly. The senior year curriculum is consuming all of Matt’s social time, and to make matters worse his father lowered his monthly stipend in response to an “unacceptable” grade point average last spring. Matt’s been obediently studious in bringing his grades back up.

            Matt sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. “So…this isn’t somehow punishment for not calling you all summer is it?”

            “Vince is not a punishment. Besides you were eager to meet him when he first enrolled.”

            “Yeah, but then he turned out to be a jerk, am I right?”

            “He’s got his reasons.” I nod at the stack of textbooks in front of him. “I should go, I’m distracting you.”

            “Hm? Oh, yeah. Later.” He smiles amiably before burying himself in his work again.

            I drop my books off in my room, put on a sweater, and turn invisible, not reappearing until I’m safely in the hidden gable. Vince smiles when he sees me and holds out a white box. “Junior Mint?”

            I dig a candy out of the strangely cool box and pop it in my mouth. “Are they supposed to be frozen?”

            “They’re better that way,” he answers. “How’s Sonic?”

            “Vin. He’s fine.”

            He grunts and drops the subject. With Xavier’s help he’s gotten clever at keeping his thoughts quieter. I on the other hand have discovered how to dig a little deeper to hear things just beneath the surface. I don’t think I could ever do it without someone’s consent though. That wouldn’t be right.

            “Are you in my head?” Vince asks suspiciously.

            “Don’t flatter yourself.” I settle my back against the slant of the roof, using my sweater as a pillow.

            He pops another candy into his mouth. “Think you’ll ever be as good as the Professor?”

            “The Professor hears peoples’ thoughts every hour of every day, so no, I hope I’m never as good as him. How’s it coming along with you?”

            He scrunches his face. “‘Bout the same.”

            “And self-defense class?”

            “Summers is a jerk, and I’ve got detention.”

            “You mouthed off again didn’t you? Vince, this is getting ridiculous. I can’t see Son because he’s studying, and I can’t see you because you’re being punished.”

            “Yeah? Then tell it to Shades, like he’ll even care. Nobody ever believes I could possibly not be to blame.”

            “No, not this again, I don’t want to talk about this.” I sit up. “You can’t change the world by being angry at it. You won’t even _try_ to deal reasonably with someone of authority.”

            “Screw you,” Vince mutters, getting to his feet. “I know what I’m talking about. If it weren’t for the Professor’s charity I’d be back in the dumpster they call a court system, sitting on my ass waiting for some mutant-hating social worker to decide where to toss me. I can’t stay here my whole life- the world would like it if we just stayed in one place like this, but it’s not up to them it’s up to us, and- And-”

            He stands at the edge of the roof, his cheeks flushed and his head full of hot air. The shingles at his feet are worn, and his shoes are old and smooth-soled.

“Sit down.” I pull on my sweater. “Or you’ll slip.”

            He looks around, brows bent, hands trembling, before carefully walking back.

 

            Terry and I giggle as we walk back to the locker room. For fun, Scott had us battle a giant robot in Danger, and some of the other kids wouldn’t stop making jokes about it. Outside the boys’ locker room, Logan and Scott are having a peaceful discussion when Logan catches my eye and beckons me over.

            Terry tilts her head and makes an “O” with her lips. “Someone’s in trouble.”

I shake my head and she grins. I stand off to the side of their conversation waiting patiently. My suit is sticky and hot, and my hair won’t stop falling in my face.

            “You talk to him, then,” says Logan, ending the conversation. “Alright, kid, c’mon.”

            “I haven’t changed yet.”

            “You don’t need to, c’mon.”

            Logan leads me back into the house where I get a few stares from underclassmen who’ve never seen the uniforms before. We walk out to the lawn, down the path past the stable house, and into the woods. I’m tempted to ask where we’re going, so I can judge whether or not it’s worth continuing. Age-old elms and maples tower over us, branches shaking hands like old friends, slim trunks rising elegantly- if I focus I can hear the sap coursing through them. Between the layers of brilliant reds and oranges is the occasional darkness of frothing thunder clouds having a reunion of their own.

            “Recognize this place?” Logan comes to a stop at the foot of a lonely oak. “Imagine it’s been raining for a while.”

            I try to, recalling the smell of slick loam and damp bark, a light drizzle pattering against dying leaves. A dull cramp comes to my stomach. This is my nightmare spot. Removing myself from the reverie I walk over to a wide, low bush squatting between two trees. There’s still a snug hollow cradled beneath it.

            “You’ve come far in a year,” says Logan stepping to my side and resting a supporting hand on my shoulder. “So, what’s this year gonna be like, eh?”

            A quiet, angry breeze tentacles through the trees. I stare at the bush, waiting for the wind to move on, then kick brown leaves into the hollow and sniff.

            Logan huffs. “Thatta girl.”

 

            Matt’s at the breakfast table with his feet up, a dreamy smile on his face, while Vince sits across from him muttering. Lately, they’ve managed to remain somewhat civil towards one another, like two dogs while the bone sits between them.

            “Camaro, Camaro, Camaro,” Vince chants as he pounds his fists against the tabletop.

            “Streamlined, moves in all the right ways, classy and slutty at the same time,” muses Matt. “Absolutely necessary in any man’s life.”

            “I take it we’re talking about cars?” I ask as I sit down. Vince has pictures of muscle cars taped in the back of his notebook, so I’ve gotten used to the subject.

            “He is.” Matt juts his chin at Vince. “I’m talking about Meg.”

            I look at Vince.

            “The actress in last night’s movie,” he explains. Then he croons to his cradled hands, “Oh, sweet, ‘71 Comet, you know I still love you,”

            “ _Anyway_ ,” I say, “did either of you finish your homework?”

            Vince starts searching through his battered folder. “I didn’t get number twelve…or thirteen…”

            Matt drops his feet before a cafeteria monitor notices. “Hey, I have a history thing I need help with too.”

            “Hang on,” I say as I go over Vince’s worksheet.

            “Oh man,” Matt leans forward, eyes on Vince, “that part at the beginning when she-”

            “Mention the movie or the girl again, and I will _throw_ your books across the room and make it look like you did it.” I pin Matt with a glare.

            He looks at his homework then looks at me with a lost expression. Vince just laughs into his hand. “Throw his books, throw his books.”          

            In the weeks that follow, the two of them become cohorts in the way only adolescent boys cans- they have a mutual fascination with fast cars and hot women. So when I see them in the hallway one morning, joking between yawns and elbowing each other in the ribs, it’s no surprise. As I approach, and they see me, Vince seems to have a sudden attack of nerves, the tips of his ears reddening, goose pimples puckering at the base of his throat as he swallows.

            “Good morning, cranky.” Matt gives me a broad, suspicious beam.

            I crook a brow, “Hi. Vin, are you okay?”

            “Hm? Oh, yeah, I’m just tired.”

            Matt puts on a mock serious face. “C’mon, Vin, let’s get to class.” _You_ _are so obvious._

            “Who’s obvious?” I ask.

            Matt looks a little startled. “Crud, you haven’t started picking up his power now too have you? You are going to the dance, right?”

            I scowl even as his train of thought skips the tracks. “Stop pestering me about it, I told you I don’t have a dress.”

            “That didn’t hurt you last year did it?” Matt nods his head at Vince. “He doesn’t have anything either and it’s not like I ordered a tux.”

            “Vince is going?” I raise an eyebrow at said victim. “Fine. I’ll go” I nudge his elbow, wondering why he’s clammed up. “But we’ll just sit at the table the whole time.”

            “No you won’t.” Matt checks his phone for the time. “I can ruin that plan.”      

            I recall this statement when the whipped cream sputters out of the can, flecking my face even though I’d ducked under the table to avoid it.

            “Gotcha,” Matt proclaims.

            Instantly, I turn the can back on him to compliment the whip he’s already got on the tip of his nose. “Traitor.”

            “I leave you guys for _one minute_ ,” Vince declares as he returns from the buffet. Laughing, Matt resurfaces from under the table, but hurriedly scrambles back under. “ _Crap_. He’s got ammo.”

            I climb back into my chair, ready to deck Vince with my can of whip, but he’s already ducked under the table to get Matt. There’s barely time to smack the tabletop and stomp my feet. _“Teacher coming.”_

I deposit my smoking gun on a neighboring table and wipe off my face with a napkin as Matt returns to his seat, laughing and spotted with whipped cream. Scott turns and notices the commotion just as Vince arises from under the table with the incriminating spray can and a look of intent.

            “Thank you for volunteering to clean up afterwards,” Scott says sharply, confiscating the can from him.

            “I- Wha-” Vince turns red.

            “It fell under the table,” I blurt out. “Matt was screwing around and got some on himself, and then dropped it.”

            “Yeah, I was just being a retard, teach,” Matt joins. “Sorry about that.” 

            Scott looks between us, not fooled in the least, but Vince is fuming. I kick him under the table as I hear one nasty thought.

            “Hand me that one,” Scott orders. I do as he says and hand him the spray can from the other table. “It’s not happening again. Got it?”

            Matt and I nod in agreement, and I kick Vince under the table again. Scott’s shaded gaze falls on him briefly before he leaves. Vince glares at his back. “Asshole.”

            _“Vincent.”_

            “You see what I’m talking about? I am always the first one blamed for crap.”

            “It just looked that way, he wasn’t singling you out.”

            “You guys just think I’m nuts.”

            “Vin, he knows we did it too,” Matt reasons. “Alright? Now let’s go dance.”

            I stand up at the same time as Matt. He backs onto the dance floor as I put my hand out to Vince. Reluctantly he stands up.

            Matt has a girl in his arms in seconds, while Vince and I hang on the edge of the crowd. After an hour, however, we stumble laughingly onto the balcony, the chilly air a relief against our burning cheeks and stinging feet. Vince leans heavily against the railing, his gasping laughter manifesting as sheer clouds of vapor. “You’re crazy.”

            “Hey, what you saw was tame.”

            “Doesn’t make you any less crazy.”

            Chuckling, I shake my hair out to cool off, the crisp air nipping at my knees beneath my borrowed skirt. “It wasn’t as bad you thought it would be, was it? You were having fun.”

            “I was- Man, I’m wiped out.” He laughs breathlessly, shuffling his feet. “Um, hey…Can I…Could I kiss you?”

            My face falls. “That’s it?”

            “What?”

            “That’s how Son convinced- No.”

            “Son-? Oh, okay. Yeah.”

            There’s a jerk of pain, but short of kissing him there’s nothing I can do to ease it. So instead, I head back inside, drag Matt off the dance floor, and punch him hard in the arm.

            “What is _wrong_ with you?”

            “Ow, what the-?” Matt looks at me fearfully. “Oh, crap, did you punch him?”

            “I can’t believe you. You owe us both an apology.”

            “Did you seriously punch him?”

            “ _No,_ I wouldn’t punch Vince, why do you keep saying that?”

            “Well you punched _me_ ,” he exclaims. “Ace, Vincent actually _likes_ you, okay, I was being a good friend.”

            “Were you?”

            I hastily curtail the chaperones at the door, and when I get the chance run as fast as I can to my bedroom. The door slams behind me and I wrench myself out of this skirt. My face is hot and I can’t remember the last time I was this humiliated. Never, I think. This kind of ridiculousness never would’ve happened to me before. Closing my eyes, I clench my fists and breathe in and out slowly. These are children. You are dealing with children. Instead of reacting like an adult, you ran away. Be the adult.

            Again I breathe in and out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would greatly appreciate feedback from new readers!


	14. Chapter 14

            Winter break begins in less than a week and I’m anxious to head out on my own again.

            “I did it last year,” I say. “Just go on the school trip, I’ve got my own places to go.”

            Vince and I are sitting at opposite ends of the couch.

            “Yeah, but last year you didn’t have anyone to hang with. Now you’ve got me, and you’re still gonna leave?”

            “I like to travel and see things unnoticed. You just can’t do that on a school trip.”

            “I- Fine. You’re gonna do your thing, just go do it.”

            Vince is unusually irritable lately. He’s started smoking. I can smell it on him when he comes down from the roof after being there on his own. I know better than to ask where he gets the cigarettes.

            Matt collapses over the back of the couch, landing between us with his feet in the air. “So, this is fun. What do you ladies want to do? I’ve got a license, I can get us places. We’ll go into town, or better yet, the city. Yeah, find a concert or something.” He starts playing bouncing pop music.

            “Stop,” I order.

            Matt gives me a dirty look. “Why?”

            “She’s got a headache,” answers Vince.

            “ _You_ get headaches? I thought you didn’t have to deal with stuff like that.”

            “Well, I’ve got one, so be quiet.”

            “Okay, but you’ve gotta admit that’s an impossibility on my part-”

            “Jeezus.” Vince gets up out of his seat. “Just _shut_ up.”

            Matt rolls into an upright position, watching Vince as he storms off. “What’s his problem?”

            “How should I know?” I rub my temples and search for something to distract Matt. “Sarah’s watching you.”

            “Eh, Sarah’s old news.” But he still glances over his shoulder.

            “What about that other girl, Lyndsay?”

            He cringes. “Ugh, she’s dating the other Matt.”  
            “Your life is so hard,” I say, getting up.

            My telepathy has become unbearable of late, buzzing as though my brain is connected to a lost radio. Every occupied room I walk past makes my headache grow, but the farther away I get from people the less it hurts. The roof would be an ideal escape, but Vince’s up there.

            Kicking icy leaves out of my path, hands delved into my coat pockets, I trek into the woods. My breath gathers in white clouds that dissipate quickly, so I turn my internal heat up just a little to compensate for the shoddy coat. A flock of ground birds rustles and flutters away, reluctant and unhappy. I get a whiff of cheap tobacco smoke and the standard school shampoo, and give an irritated sigh.

            _You’re going to kill yourself with those._ I think loud enough for him to hear as I turn to go.

            _I figured you’d head up to the roof,_ Vince replies as I finally locate his heartbeat a few yards to my left. So he’s avoiding me too. _How’s the headache?_

_Murderous, yours?_

_Sure._

            _I’ll be on the roof then._

            _Whatever._

The window to the roof is frozen shut. I slump into a barstool and cradle my throbbing head in my arms. A mug of hot cocoa is placed in front of me, but when I look up the responsible party has left the room.

            Logan taps me on the head. “Jean says something’s bugging you.”

            I take a long gulp of cocoa, the burn easing the headache minimally. “What makes people _like_ each other?”

            Logan raises an amused brow.

            “Why can’t people just be normal and friendly? Why do they have to go and make things complicated?”

            “Please tell me this isn’t about a boy.”

            “Never mind.”

            He takes a seat rubbing a hand over his face. “Let’s cut to the chase, which one is it?” His face fades to guilt. “Or is it both of ‘em?”

            “It doesn’t matter.” The thought of Matt being interested in me is laughable.

            “Better not be the preppy kid.”

            “Definitely not,” I answer after another long gulp of cocoa. “And his name’s Matt. Son.”

            “Right. So what’s the other one? Vinny?”

            “Vince.” I catch a segment of a thought when I speak the name. “Lay off, we’re not talking about them.”

            “He just being cute or do I need to step in?”

            “No,” I rise from my seat, “just stay away from both of them.”

            Rain patters dully against the glass. Moments ago it was a blinding sleet that sent Vince back into the house, his hoodie simultaneously soggy and half frozen. Now, in a fresh T-shirt, he gazes in boredom out a sitting room window, doing his best to pretend the drowned cigarette smell is coming from someone else.

            “If she hasn’t stopped talking to you then you’ve still got a chance.” Matt glances through his phone messages. “Hey, ask her to the Winter Dance, she can’t say no to that.”

            “Oh, geez, no more dances, it went too well the first time. And she says no to you all the time.”

            “Well, you’re not me, and she always comes anyway doesn’t she?”

            “Yeah…why is that?”

            “The dancing,” he answers surely, “or the food. She eats like a full-grown man. Didn’t you have fun on Thanksgiving before the…thing?”

            “Sure, I thought I was going to kiss a fantastic girl at the end. No, you know what, that whole night was pointless, no more dances.”

            “So, what,” Matt’s phone blips with a new message, “you’re just going to, get over her?”

            “I- Yeah?”

            “That doesn’t sound very confident.”

            “Well then what?” Vince turns on him. “I can’t win her over, Matt.”

            “Sure you can.”

            “How?”

            Matt shrugs and types away on his keypad.

            “That’s what I thought.” Vince looks back out at the sodden yard, putting his fingers to his lips, and scowling when there is no cigarette to meet them.

            “So, show me how you do that again?”

            She smiles with old pride and holds the ID card out in her floury hand. Then there is no ID at all, but a slick ace of spades instead.

            I smirk. “Light or telepathy?”

            She taps her left temple. _Make the other person see what you want them to see._

I nod. “What about showing them something _they_ want to see?”

With a shrug, she hands the ID back. _Don’t know. Can’t read minds._

Nodding to show I understand, I sign a lopsided ‘thank you’ and ‘goodbye,’ and she nods in approval, giving me a wink that says ‘Go find some trouble’.

            I leave the heat of the diner kitchen, skidding in a bit of dishwater on my way out. Not watching where I’m going, I flip my school ID over and over in my hands, using sensory cues to keep from running into anything. Squinting at the card, I only worsen my raging headache.

            So far this has proved a fruitful trip. Before meeting the cook there was a young photographer capable of teleportation, a set of elderly telepathic twins, and a single mother who could feel emotions through touch.

            The photographer was more than happy to show me his talent, though he complained that some “jumps” tended to erase his camera memory. Photographs, he explained, help him visualize locations he intends to teleport to. The empathic mother I met wasn’t as compliant. She was a frail woman with long gloves much like Rogue’s. They were worn and pilled, and she sat in the corner of the bus hugging herself. She talked little about her ability and mostly about her young son who was in daycare, never once mentioning the father. Only after demonstrating my invisibility could I get her to remove her glove and shake my hand.

            “You’re excited,” she said, “intrigued? But you’re avoiding something that worries you.”

            I withdrew my hand. She shrugged and replaced her glove, a flush coming to her cheeks. “I told you. It’s no gift.”

            “Is it,” I tried covering my indiscretion, “the longer you make contact the deeper you go into their emotions?”

            She nodded dully. “It would be nicer to be invisible.”

 

            The gravel crunches roughly under my feet as I land heavily in the roundabout. Jumping again, I land in front of the mudroom door, listen for people inside, then look up at the second story.

            I lose my balance this time and fall into the bed laughing. My last bus stop was ten miles from here, so I teleported the rest of the way. Absolutely exhilarating.

It’s the last day of winter break before spring classes resume, so Matt should already be here. I change and march downstairs to the cafeteria where dinner is in full swing. Storm notices my entrance and raises one stern eyebrow. _Cutting it a little close aren’t we?_    

At our table, Matt throws his arms wide and stands up, hugging me briefly before sitting back down again. “Where’ve you been?”

            “About. So,” I observe Vince carefully, “how was the school trip?”

            “It was okay,” he concedes. “We went to the Smithsonian.”      

            “Seriously?” asks Matt disapprovingly. “They make you go on field trips over holiday break?”

            “No, man, we did other things, it’s just the Smithsonian was the coolest.”

            “What’d you like about it the best?” I ask.

            Matt’s boredom with the topic disconcerts him. “Nah, nothing.”

            “No c’mon,” I wave dismissively at Matt, “forget him, I want to know.”

            Vince grins quietly. “Well, they’ve got this whole wing on mechanics and engineering, you know, robotics and stuff. I thought that was kinda cool.”

            “Uh-oh, Vinny’s gonna build a Transformer,” mocks Matt.

            Vince punches his arm. “Oh, hey, tell her about the thing.”

            “What thi- Oh, right.” Matt leans forward. “So there’s this-”

            “Not out loud, somebody’ll hear you.” Vince gestures to me. “Here, I’ll tell you.”

            “No way,” whines Matt, “you guys always leave me out when you do that, c’mon, just let me tell her.”

 _No problem, I’ve figured out how to include you_ , I say to Matt.

            He blinks. “What the heck just happened?”

            Vince looks between us.

 _Think what you want to tell me, Son,_ I say to him again. _Vin and I will hear it._

_Yeah, but so will the Professor._

_I’ve got that covered._ I extend the thought to Vince as well.

            Matt crooks an eyebrow skeptically, but Vince nods and rests both elbows on the table. _Alright, so here’s the plan. Son found this nightclub in the city that lets you in if you’re eighteen-_

 _Hang on._ I repeat what he just said to Matt.

 _Man, that feels weird,_ Matt thinks. _Yeah, so I’m turning eighteen in like a month, I’m definitely hitting a club, and you guys have to come with me._

 _Yeah, one problem with that,_ says Vince.

 _You’re not eighteen?_ I answer.

_Neither are you._

_You don’t know how old I am._

_What are you guys saying?_ Matt asks.

A dark look steals over Vince’s face before disappearing again. _No, I mean we don’t have ID’s that_ say _we’re eighteen._

 _Dude, quit leaving me out,_ Matt nags.

I sigh at him. _We’re discussing how to get ID’s._

_ID’s? Oooh, I keep forgetting how little you guys are._

_I’m seventeen, jackass._ Vince scowls. _Not even a full year younger than you._

 _He can’t hear you, Vince._ I take out my student ID.

 _Hey, Sonus,_ Vince shouts, _you look like a Ken doll._

 _Are you guys even still talking?_ Matt asks annoyed.

 _No, he’s just making fun of you now,_ I tell him as I try to focus on the card. There’s a curse as Vince gets punched in the arm. I slide the card across the table towards them. “What does that look like to you?”

            With a begrudging sigh Vince looks closer at the card, squints, and rubs the sleep out of his eyes. I bite my lip and focus a little harder.

            “Where the heck’d you get that?” he asks in surprise.

            Matt reaches over and snatches it from him. “It’s a school ID, I’ve got one too.”

            “That could get you into a _bar_ ,” Vince chokes, as though I’ve reached the pantheon of teenage success.

            “DAY-UM.” Matt hollers.

            The table trembles, I wince, and every mind in the room focuses on us.

            “Sorry,” Matt waves his hand high, “I just really love breakfast.”

            “So Matt’s going to drive,” Vince states, “you’re providing the ID’s, and I just tag along, I guess.”

            “You provide the awkward atmosphere.” Matt forks a breakfast sausage.


	15. Chapter 15

            Logan’s back creaks in warning as he gently pours himself a coffee. Last night’s mission played hell on him. It’s nine am on a Saturday, so all the students are sleeping, thankfully. It’s easier to lick your wounds when you don’t have fifty-million hormone-fueled kids galloping around you.

            Ace whips past him and ducks her head into the fridge.

            “Mornin’.”

            She grunts in reply and closes the fridge, chocolate milk in hand and a roll of cheese sticks hanging by their wrapper between her teeth. After pocketing the dairy in her oversized sweater she grabs two apples off the counter and dashes for the door.

            “Hey, hey.”

            “What?” She flips her hair.

            “How’s life?”

            “Fine, why?”

            “Well, I just never see you anymore.” He leans forward, winces, and straightens out her shirt collar. “Where’re you going?”

            “Son’s driving us to the mall.”

            Vince comes around the corner, shabby looking as usual and definitely smelling of cheap cigarettes. Not recent, not this morning at least, but it clings to his jacket, the same one he wore yesterday. Logan regards him severely. “Detmer.”

            “Mr. Logan.”

            “‘Kay, bye,” Ace says hastily over her shoulder, grabbing Vince by one arm and dragging him away.

* * *

 

            Matt scrunches his brows. “So, the movie is?”

            “Our cover.”

            “Cover, huh? I’d be worried if you were actually planning a crime.”

            I laugh shortly. “Turn here.”

            “I know how to get to the mall.”

            “Yes, but you always take the most crowded way, this way is faster.”

            “Alright,” Vince turns in his seat to face me, “please stop arguing with him while he’s driving; I really don’t want to die in a fiery crash.”

            I sit back. “Matt, Vin needs new shoes.”

            “What’s wrong with my shoes?”

            “They’ve got gaping holes in them.”

            “I saw him walking in the snow with them like that,” Matt tattles.

            Vince picks at the frayed fabric. “I can’t just get new ones, I haven’t got money.”

            “Heck, I’ll buy ‘em if it keeps you from getting frostbite, you dumbass.” Matt squints at the traffic light. “Okay, is that a green light, or?” He shrugs and steps on the gas anyway.

At the mall, Vince sits disgruntled at a bench, his new shoes looking smart and clean.

            I brush my hands over my jeans. “Where’d Matt go?”

            Vince waves carelessly at the food court where Matt leans over the pretzel counter schmoozing a dimpled blonde.

            “Glad I asked.” I sit down. “How are you holding up? You seem stressed lately.”

            He’s flicking the tab of a half empty soda can; _thip, thip, thip_. “I’m cool, fine.”

            I work out which factors might be weighing on him. “Is your social worker coming out soon?”

            He sighs and rubs his forehead. “Yeah.”

            With dipping grades and a new smoking habit they’d have reason to remove him from the school. He swallows and looks at the can. “If you could help me out, I mean, you know, with the tutoring and stuff that might make things better.”

            “Of course.” I note Matt striding our way with a cinnamon pretzel. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

            “If I do, I mean if things don’t go well, would you miss me?”

            I pay more attention to him now. “Of course.”

            “Okay good, cuz I mean you never talk about other people like you miss them, and- Well, I guess I never do either, but that’s cuz I’ve got nobody to miss.”

            This conversation seems to have veered, but I can’t figure out why. “Make sure to tell Matt you like the shoes. It’ll make him happy.”

            I spend the rest of the weekend in my mind taking things out of storage, having second thoughts, and forcing them back again. I don’t know what I’m going to tell him except the truth, but I don’t think I’ve left it locked up long enough.

            “Professor?” I waited until the room was empty before approaching his desk. “Do you think we could play chess later? There are some things I’d should tell you.”

            His eyes shine in a kind way. “Of course, of course. Meet me after classes are out for the day. It’s alright.”

            The chess board seems miles long, yet I look up at him and the distance is too short.

            The Professor makes the first move. The game progresses with his strategy a constant solid wall to my harried advances. Placing his hands in his lap he clears his throat. “You’ll tire yourself out this way.”

            I drop the knight where I mean him to go and rub my forehead. “It’s a long and boring story, Professor.”

            “You don’t need to tell me everything, just what’s important.”

            Sitting back I cross my legs, uncross them, rub the toe of my shoe against the back of my leg. “I am much older than I should be. I stopped aging properly when I left Alkali Lake- you know about that of course. The people who took me in didn’t mind, and like yourself they didn’t worry over where I came from or who I was. It’s taken me decades to look this old, and in that time I received an excellent education and careful attention. But, I was always a stranger. I didn’t fit in.”

            He waits for my pause to last. “Where are these people now?”

            The question doesn’t hurt like I thought it would. “Gone. They had…political enemies, shall we say. Things became drastic, but a friend and I managed to escape and live in seclusion until such a time as things could be reorganized.”

            I rub a pawn between my fingers. “By then I was ‘thirteen,’ and something about that developmental stage triggered a crisis- everything I’d repressed came to the fore. No one could help me, so I left.”

            The professor breathes gently. “And your friend?”

            “Died of old age.”

            The board remains at a standstill as Xavier crafts his thoughts. I wonder what he was like as a young man. You’d think the years had been kind from the look of him, but there are deep creases above his brow. And then of course, the wheelchair.

            “You’ve already lived a lifetime, haven’t you?” he says finally in a low voice laden with empathy. “How are you?”

            “Fine.” Numb. I don’t feel some great release from burden. “It might come later.”

            “When it does, come see me.”

            I nod and the pawn rolls quietly across the board.

            Matt yawns and stretches. “Wus the test going to be on again?”

            “Chapters- Hang on.” I flip through my binder.

            “So neither of you heard me?” Vince leans over his single page of notes. “I said there was a-”

            “Mutant in Delaware,” I finish. “Have they caught anybody?” 

            Matt glares at his notes. “Is it going to be on Steinbeck at all? I could swear he mentioned Steinbeck.”

            “They said it was two guys, that’s all I know. One of them took himself out.”   

            “I read that they’re college students,” I add, “but then I heard there might be a Brotherhood link. You know anything about that?”

            “No, why should I?” Vince snaps.

            “This crap is boring, man, I don’t even know why I signed up for it.” Matt drops his pencil onto the page. “Why does he have us read boring crap? Why can’t we read, I don’t know, _Harry Potter_?”

            Vince looks disgusted. “Because you aren’t in the fifth grade, dipshit. And you call _me_ illiterate.”

            “You didn’t know what ‘egregious’ meant,” Matt reasons. “You still don’t.”

            “You’re both idiots,” I exclaim. “Now shut up or get your work done without me.”

            “Just marry him and get it over with,” says Matt. “It’ll keep him from being such a diva.”

            Now Vince gets up, involuntarily searching his jacket pockets. “I’m done here. Have fun passing English, retard.”

            “Diva,” Matt calls as he leaves the room. Facing me, he lowers his voice. “You know it wasn’t just one kiss, right?”

            “You know you’re useless, right?” I take my sweater off the back of the chair and follow Vince out.   

            When I find him, Vince tries to snuff out the cigarette in the snow before turning to me red faced and wide-eyed.

            “What’s going on?”

             He sighs through his nose and looks west as a car passes on the road. “Look, this isn’t a little thing, I mean, I thought it was, but- Ace, I…I love you”

            Am I supposed to be thrilled? I swallow hard. “You’re seventeen, that’s too young to fall in love.”

            Scowling, Vince crunches away into the snow. “You wanted me to talk, I talked.”

            “Vinny, c’mon. Why do we always have to talk about this?” I call after him, but he continues into the woods and of course I follow him.

            The stiff ice scuffing under my boots is several days old and it hasn’t thawed any since them.  Yet, in following Vince I come across a bare patch. Slick, black leaves stain the ground as they rot, scraggly weeds sticking up here and there. I crouch down for a closer look and find the tips are burnt off. Sniffing at the sky, I furrow my brows. There has been no weather that might garner lightning, unless Storm herself got upset over something.

            “What are you doing?” Vince stands at the edge of the thawed ring.

            Refocusing my eyes on him I hold up a burnt stalk. “Storm.”

            He sighs with relief. I get up, blinking a few times. “Sorry. I know it’s weird when I do that.”

            “Look,” he holds his hands out within his coat pockets, creating two peaks in the cloth, “why can’t we happen? And please, give me the real reason.”

            “Sometimes the answer is just no, Vince.”

            He rolls his eyes and gazes off into the woods. The last time we were up on the roof was like this. His cheeks rosy from the chill making his few brown freckles grow seemingly darker. Chewed nails gripped his elbows, and the tips of his ears burned pink under an overhang of scratchy brown hair, while his eyes darted over the treetops as though expecting something to arise from among them.

            I tilt my head to the side and glare. “Vince, I know too many people with dead partners. Grief made them distant, ugly, and push everyone away. That’s not happening to me. I’m sorry you like me, but I’m trying to avoid that level of trauma.”

            He stares at me fiercely before looking west again. “I’m not dying on you, Ace.”

            I rub my hands up and down my arms. “Eighth period’s about to ring.”

            He closes me out.

                                               

            The air is thick with exhaust and cologne as a group of young people crowd the curb outside the club. A gentle swagger evolves in Matt’s step as we come upon the first group of questionable women- ink curling at the corners of their eyes as they teeter in six-inch heels. Taking Matt by the arm, I pull him away as he flutters too close to the gleam.

            The bouncer drifts a bored eye over the three of us. Vince tries to hang back, but I push him ahead of me. Matt gives a cheesy grin as he holds up his ID, but the guy doesn’t seem to care. Vince shows his card and I show mine, but the guy remains unfazed. I push Vince ahead into the building.

            The club rumbles. Lights flash and scream over the dance floor, but aside from a few red and green lights in lounge areas the room is utterly dark. Matt, in waiting for us, has already found someone to talk to. Blonde extensions, plastic nails, Macy’s perfume, all combined with a sharp voice and a shrill laugh. Matt shrugs at us as she leads him to her group of friends.

            “Well now what?” Vince asks.

            A headache blooms. Taking him by the hand, I let his sudden thrill motivate me forward until we are enveloped by the mass of elbows and shoulders. The headache lingers, fades, and I let my walls down and let go of his hand. No one is thinking much, and if I’m careful the music drowns out all thought. It’s very quiet.

            Vince watches me, trying to copy that feeling like I copy skills. His movements become less awkward, less stiff, but I can’t keep from laughing, so he gives up and steps on my foot. Then he leans in and kisses me.

            The empathic connection is overwhelming. This is no handshake or brushing shoulders. His want consumes me, his desire burns. Leaving the floor, I wish I hadn’t pushed him. My cheeks burn and I dig my nails into my arms. There’s nowhere to hide but an empty corner of couch, exposed by the most light and only a few feet away from the dancing. Brows furrowed, he breaks through the ocean of dancers and collapses with a huff in the seat beside me. I look at him askance. “I’m not getting through to you, am I?”

            The withering look I receive says this is somehow my fault. “You keep doing this, you keep letting me in like that and- and then you just shut down and kick me out. I’m just trying to understand.”

            I look the other way, hoping to spy Matt and get out of this place. “You’re not trying to understand me you’re trying to find out how to get me to date you. I let you in because I need someone to talk to as much as you do. I thought you cared about what I needed, so I can’t figure out why you want to change that.”

            He rubs his eyes. “I- Okay. Do you want to leave? Or do we have to stay until he wants to go?”

            “That depends.” I dig into my back pocket and pull out Matt’s wallet. “Are you hungry?”

            Matt laughs and cowers as Vince lurches forward to hit him.

            “Knock it off,” I snap from behind the wheel. I’ve never been taught how to drive a car, but they’re so rudimentary I didn’t think it would be difficult. However, it’s harder to remember directions at night. Landmarks are easy to miss, and the edge of the road tends to blend in with the rest of the landscape. I roll the window down again.

            “Man, quit doing that it’s freezing in here,” complains Matt. “Why didn’t you just let me drive?”

            “Because you drive like a madman.”

            “Just put your coat on.” Vince tosses it into the front seat.

            Matt huddles up in it. “How does the air tell you which street to turn down, huh?”

            I take a deep whiff of air and roll the window back up. “Now might be a good time to tell you that that redhead you were sucking the face off of had a cold sore the size of Montana.”

            _“Ohohoho.”_ Vince taunts. “You get herpes on your very first legal kiss.”

            “Sixteen isn’t legal,” I say.

            “Shut up, she was _not_.” Matt wipes his mouth.

            Vince just laughs. “Four days as an adult and you’re already a sex offender.”

            “No, he’s been one for longer,” I murmur, turning onto a country road.

            We tiptoe through the dark garage with sealed lips until Matt curses when he gets a side mirror in the hip. Vince and I snort into our hands and shush each other, and Matt playfully grabs hold of my coat so he won’t run into something again. We’ve just closed the garage door behind us when a light flicks on.

            Scott Summers stands cross-armed and stiff jawed in the middle of the hall. “Where were you?”

            We look at each other then burst out laughing. Matt tries to apologize, but Vince and I just kind of lean on each other and try not to fall over.

            “You think this is funny?” demands Scott.

            Vince nods. _He’s gonna blast us._

            I laugh a little harder at that image, imagining us vaporizing or turning into little piles of cartoon ash.

            _“Hey,”_ barks an all too familiar voice.

            Sobering instantly, I elbow Vince. Logan stares me down.

            “Beds. Now.”


	16. Chapter 16

            “If there are so many languages, how come you only see, like, French and Spanish on DVD menus?”

            The Pakistani boy Amanda’s addressing, who I know speaks at least four languages, pops his gum and appears to accept the possibility she’s from Mars.

            Amanda purses her lips and concentrates on the American flag on the cover of his textbook. In slow words she asks, “Do you know what that is?”

            I drag my claws over the scarred surface of the detention hall desk. _I can’t do this._

            _It’s only been fifteen minutes,_ says Vince from outside. The windows are three desks away from me, but occasionally I glimpse the top of Matt’s head as they sit by the wall. He tells an obscene joke and Vince laughs.

            _You two are no comfort at all._ I glare at Matt’s crown when it comes back into view.

            _Boys,_ it’s the Professor, _remove_ _yourselves elsewhere._

            I can tell by the scuffling and grumbling outside that Xavier and I are now on a closed channel. _You_ _were listening in,_ I accuse.

            _And you broke my trust. What would I tell Matthew’s parents if something had happened to him that night?_

_I wouldn’t have let something happen to him._

_You went to a club, Ace. Vincent could be taken away by the court for that alone, and I would have to follow that ruling. I am responsible for every student entrusted here. If you feel it in your power to be independent, you cannot take-_

I  close off from him completely.

* * *

 

            Xavier opens his eyes, letting his jaw relax. Logan rubs his hands together.

            “So, you can’t tell me?”

            Xavier levels his emotions, coming back to the present. “She has to disclose it to you herself. All I can say is what I already have, that it’s more complicated than I’d suspected.”

            Logan clasps his hands in front of him. “And she didn’t say why she doesn’t age.”

            “I doubt she even knows. It’s going to take time yet.”

            “Why do _you_ think it is?”

            Xavier sighs heavily. “Well, based on Jean’s examination, what Ace _has_ told us, and some of my own deductions: she isn’t old, no matter what she claims. Physically, she’s the picture of youth, and since she copied your power, she’s undoubtedly much healthier and more energetic now, but she was a normally developed fourteen year-old when she arrived. Of course, you met her much longer than fourteen years ago, so we have to take into consideration that there was either some unusual lag in her development, or this _isn’t_ the girl you met.”

            “Then who the hell could she be? Prof, this _is_ the same girl. Any doubts cast on my memory aside my scent memory is stronger than anything. Ace _is_ the girl from the facility.”

            “So we rule that out,” says Xavier. “She is the girl. Therefore, something has caused her to age improperly.”

            “And she doesn’t know what it is?” Logan rubs the back of his hand, massaging the spaces between his knuckles. “You think it’s an issue of memory?”

            “No, I believe her memory to be sound. It’s her willingness to revisit the past that is the trouble.”

            “Huh,” Logan grunts. “I don’t know what to do about the nightclub issue. I know Sonus started it. He’s always got dirty song lyrics in his head. I don’t like her near either of ‘um.”

            “They’ll do fine, Logan. Now,” Xavier looks at the clock, “she blocked me out before I had a chance to ask her in after detention. Could you relay the message for me?”

            With a grumbling sigh and an arched brow, Logan arises and leaves the room.

* * *

 

            I sink into this seat and sigh through my nose- tobacco, aftershave, flannel. Logan was here for a while. I’m half asleep when Xavier finishes his phone call.

            “Ace.”

            “Hi.”

            “Have you-”

            “Nope.”

            “Ace.”

            “Did you tell him I don’t know?”

            “I told him you don’t know _yet_. Still, you must have some understanding of it.”

            I sit up. “I’m open to theories.”

            “Well, there is the strong possibility that it is a side effect of your mutation or even a secondary mutation, which occur more often than you’d think. You might also consider the likelihood of it being a setback due to your early manifestation. Had you manifested at, say, twelve years of age you may have continued to age normally. Mutation is exceedingly unpredictable.” He says it like that is one of its more unfortunate charms.

            This all sounds plausible, but truthfully I never had the time to worry over it as much as he has. “I first copied Logan’s ability when I was little. It didn’t hold, but I generally assumed a residual part of it slowed my aging. My other theory is that perhaps, something was done to me that might have caused this.”

            He shakes his head firmly. “Genetic experimentation such as that would’ve left a disastrous mark on you. Any evidence of physical tampering would be very clear. You overestimate the capabilities of science during that era.”

            “Then you don’t think anything like what happened to Logan happened to me?”

            He hesitates, looking at me, and I know he’s considering how best to word his next assurances. “It has been many years, and your healing factor has certainly erased any evidence of experimentation. All we have from before is Jean’s exam data, but if she’d known what to look for it could’ve been more thorough.”

            My chest is tight, my throat dry. “What if I’m not…what if I’m not even human to begin with?”

            He leans on one elbow and presses his fingers together. “Then what would you be?”

            I shake my head and rest my chin in my hand.

            “You’re completely human, Ace. Don’t worry.”

            “I wouldn’t if I didn’t have anyone asking questions. I really just wouldn’t think about it at all.”

            “Ah.” He readjusts himself. “I assume sneaking out to nightclubs helps you not think? Be more careful with your friends. Whether you remain anonymous your whole life, your actions will always have consequences on the behalf of others.”

           

            The tip of the cigar ignites with a whisper. Smokes plumes from his nostrils and I wrinkle my face at the smell. Brow arched, Logan offers me the cigar, and after much choking and coughing he plucks it from my hand with a satisfied grunt.

            “You’d make a horrible parent.”

            He chuckles in what might be considered gleeful for him. Dropping his hand to the bench’s armrest, he taps ashes to the gravel. “I’m not asking for your whole life story, kid. I don’t need to know all that.”

            I can’t get the tickle out of my throat. “There are parts you do need to know?”

            “What I’d _like_ to know is how old you are. For my bum memory’s sake.”

            “There’s no straight answer to that; how old are you? See? Not that easy.”

            There’s a growl in his throat. “You can tell me why you had nightmares though. Are they from Alkali?”

            I rub my forehead and let my hair fall in my face. "No. I- other things have happened since. My surrogate family, they…they didn’t make it."

            The cigar whispers and hisses. “How long ago was this?”

            “You won’t believe me.”

            “How long?” he asks more firmly.

            “Thirty-five years about, plus the time I’ve been here.”

            “So…this was before I met you?”

            “No, no, I told you, it’s complicated. I met you, I met my surrogate family, they died, I eventually met you again.” I mark each event on a timeline in the air. “For you it’s been, what, twenty-three years since Alkali? It’s been more like seventy for me. Now I know that sounds bizarre, but I’m not going to explain it, I can’t. Maybe at some point it will be easier, but for now take my word for it?”

            Logan glowers beneath heavy brows, his faith in my sanity fracturing. “At some point. How far ahead is that point?”

            “How far can you wait?”

            He smiles. “When you figure it out, I’ll be around.”

            I laugh under my breath. “I promise I’m not lying. I know lately I have been-”

            “Yeah, I noticed.”

            “-but some of my experiences…it does no good to relate.” I hunch my shoulders and stare at a gray scuff on my shoes.

            Logan sighs downwind. “What am I going to do with you?”

 

            Matt beams in the mirror then flinches as a camera flashes somewhere in the room. “No fireworks this year, right?” Someone drops a high-heeled shoe and he swears.

            “Relax, you nub.” I readjust his tie and the ‘Grad 2008’ pin he found at the mall. “Make me do this twice and it’s going to be very _tight_.”

            I turn his tassel to the left side of his cap and step back. He almost looks like a man. He gives me his cheesy grin and lifts his hand. Rolling my eyes once more before the day is out, I give him a hi-five and accept a peck on the cheek, his soft stubble brushing my jaw.

            “So,” I pull away, straightening out his tassel once again, “are girls hotter at Brown? Because originally I thought you were leaving us for a university in California.”

            “I was, but the program I’m looking for is at BU, and…well, my dad went to BU, so…” Matt trails off with a defeated air. “However, considering the short distance from BU to the city, I _will_ be living in Manhattan next year.”

            I wrinkle my nose. “That’s two hours.”

            “Nah,” drawls Matt, “it’s an hour either way if I take a train.”

            “Aw, Mattie,” croons Amanda, coming over. “Gimme a hug.”

            I take that opportunity to step out. I find Vince leaning against the hedge by the field, and join him. After the speeches, as the graduates names are being called, I notice Vince getting antsy. I catch him glaring at the ‘human’ half of the field, and realize he’s been at it for a while now.           

            “Why do they even come?”

            I cross my arms. “What are they thinking?”

            “They’re too far away.”

            “Oh, you can’t hear this far?”

            He just shakes his head. “You can?”

            “I just assumed you could too.” Out of habit, I scan the field, pushing my senses to observe the gardens too. Everything and everyone is where they should be.      

            “Where are Matt’s parents?”

            I blink. It didn’t even cross my mind that they’d come. Now I stare into the crowded seats, wondering if any of those blond-haired couples is waiting expectantly for Matt to cross the stage.

            When his name is called, and Matt canters down the ramp waving his cap high and whooping for himself, I shout his name as loud as I can.


	17. Chapter 17

            The breeze sways the branches overhead. Plush white clouds meander peacefully in a high definition sky swirling with fluid pixels.

            “That one looks like a goldfish.” Vince points.

            I turn my head to the side. “Huh, you’re right. Of course, so does that one.” I point to another cloud a short distance away.

            He clicks his tongue. “Crud.”

            “Yeah, nothing’s perfect.” I tug on his sleeve. “Now go climb that boulder, I’ll meet you on the other side.”

            “Are you kidding?” He brushes his hair out of his face. “I can’t climb that.”

            “Whiner. I can always teleport you myself.”

            “No thanks,” he answers swiftly, “I don’t want to end up inside out or something.”

            “Do I look inside out to you? C’mon,” I take his hand, “I have to hug you if we’re going to teleport, that’s how it works.”

            He looks at his hand in mine. “Jeez, you’re a jerk.”

            A feeling like a sharp tug jerks us in one direction and Vince gasps. The boulder towers darkly over us. “How’re you feeling? Sit down if you have to.”

            He shakes his head and steps back, putting one hand against the rock to steady himself. Then with a deep breath he nods. “I’m fine. I didn’t really think it would work. Danger didn’t just change the space we were standing in did it?”

            “That would be cheating, and Danger doesn’t give slack.”

            “I don’t…I don’t have to fight anything do I?”

            “No, just some goblins.”

            He does a double-take, and I laugh.

* * *

 

            Vince collapses on the Danger Room floor as the simulation ends. Every limb aches and his brand new suit sticks with sweat. Ace shakes her head and loosens her hair. “C’mon, dipstick, you can make it to the locker room.”

            “You sound like him.”

            “Like who- Oh, Logan?”

            He unzips the front of his suit. “Don’t be like that. You’re nice.”

            She snorts. “You need to check your sources on that one.”

            “You are.” He struggles to sit up. “Help?”

            She raises a skeptical brow until he puts his hands out. Obliging, she sighs through her nose. “Only because you’re incredibly pale.”

            Any excuse for her to touch him.

            Now she flicks him on the ear and leans forward into empty space, dizzying him. The wind jerks and teases her hair, threatening in a playful way to pull her straight off the roof to the solid ground four stories below. She just smiles.

            “So you and rainstorms?” He comments over the turbulence, pulling his hands up into his sleeves.

            _What do you mean?_

            His head grows warm whenever she speaks to him. _You know what I mean. You look so happy._

She takes a long, deep breath as the wind billows and whistles. _They’re incredible, that’s all._

Matt agreed to disagree when Vince told him how beautiful she was, shrugging his shoulders and nodding in a reluctant way. If Matt had ever bothered to stop and notice anyone beside himself for once, he would’ve seen her like this.

            “Ace, you know, all flirting aside you really are cute.” He can’t tell if she’s shaking her head or shaking out her hair. “You are. Somebody must’ve told you that by now.”

            She doesn’t reply.                       

* * *

 

            Logan stuffs a ten dollar bill in my pocket. “Don’t let Sonus do any of the driving. Boy’s got a new car, he’ll wanna drive it.” He grunts and eyes Vince who’s zipping up his hoodie. “You both got bus fare?”

            I nod earnestly.

            “Right. Call me when you get there. You got a phone?”

            “I’ll use Matt’s.”

            He nods, and after deliberating a moment, hands Vince a ten as well. Vince looks at me confused. Then after a second, he takes the ten. “You sure I’m not going to blow this on drugs?”

            Logan raises a brow. “Ten dollars? Those are gonna be some crappy drugs.” He winks at me. “Paint the town red. You sure you don’t need a ride to the stop?”

            _“Logan.”_

“A’right, a’right. Have fun walking.”

            I jump down the front steps and skip to the roundabout island to check on a crocus I saw sneaking out of the mulch.

            “What does this mean?” Vince is scrutinizing the ten.

            “It means…I don’t know. Maybe he does want you to buy crappy drugs.”

            Once we’ve left school grounds, we walk halfway to the bus stop until I’m sure we’re out of Xavier’s range. I put my arms out. Vince smiles happily and hugs me.

            “Hm, you enjoy this too much,” I say. “We could still end up inside out, you know.”

            “It’d be worth it,” he mumbles contentedly. “Hey, hey, hey, wait, check the picture again.”

            “I know where I’m going okay, we’ll be fine.” Still, I take a printout photo out of my back pocket.

            “What street is it on?” he quizzes. “Have you even jumped this far before?”

            “We’re not going the whole way all at once, remember?” I put the printout back. “Now hug me again.”

After we’ve landed, I kick some red-white-and-blue confetti into the gutter. “You good now?”          

            Vince, bent over with his hands on his knees, raises a patient finger. I huff and lean against the fence. “Do you remember what you had for breakfast this morning?”

            He squints at me. “Please don’t mention my breakfast right now.”

            “What’s your middle name?”  
            “Phillip.” He stands up with a low moan. “Why?”

            “No reason.” Just making sure your memory’s intact.

            “Stop loitering!”

            I turn to face the angry tenant, and roll my eyes. Matt skips down the front steps with that stupid grin on his face. “What are you two dweebs doing out here?”

            “Vince doesn’t have his sea legs yet.”

            Vince smiles weakly. Matt unlocks the front gate. “I’ve got some ginger ale upstairs, you’ll be good.”             

            Vince and I lean over the air register in Matt’s apartment, melting into the sweet caress of the AC as it billows up into our tented shirts. Matt walks up with two chilled sodas and presses one startlingly to my cheek. I smack him in the ribs and take the can.

            Vince pops the tab. “So is there a refrigerator somewhere?”

            “Yeah.” Matt bounds away, and Vince and I follow.

            A collection of colorful cereal boxes clutters one corner of the extensive counter space, and as Vince examines the contents of the massive refrigerator I see there really isn’t much to expect other than a jar of peanut butter. The one thing he remembers to refrigerate doesn’t even need refrigeration. When Vince closes the door I see the final touch to the bare kitchen- a magnet from the pizza parlor.

            Through another archway is the living area where a long white sofa and a small dining room table have no need to compete for floor space. A flat screen TV is the commanding presence, and an open door leads to the bedroom, obvious from the scattered laundry and unmade bed.

            “Son, do you have a housekeeper?” I can’t see his father getting him all this without hiring a nanny.

            “Nah.” He scratches his nose. “Um, hey, okay, as much as I love it could you guys stop… calling me Son?”

            Vince furrows his brows. “Why?”

            “Well, you know, it’s so… _mutant._ ”

            “It’s just a nickname,” I say. “No one questions nicknames.”

            “I’m not abandoning ‘Sonus' or anything.” Matt rocks back on his heels. “I just need to be Matt out here.”

            “That’s bullshit.”

            “Okay, _I_ don’t like the swearing.” I give Vince a look. Matt leaves the room. “Could you try not to annoy him as soon as we get here?”

            “So I should just put up with him discarding his identity?”

            “Probably since it’s _his_.”

            Matt bounds back in and hands us each a crisply wrapped gift. “Guess what it-”

            “It’s a phone,” I say.

            “How the heck do you know that?”  

            I set my soda down as Vince shakes his box. “Because you’re always complaining about not being able to text me.”

            As Vince slides his fingers under the tape, popping it off quickly, I carefully peel apart the folds of slick, expensive paper. A streamlined, plastic case sits royally in the creased paper, the gleaming smart phone within expectant of awe.

            Matt takes a drink of soda. “I already set up the plan and the instructions-” then he hurries away midsentence and scrambles around in a desk drawer. He returns with a sticky note. “Just dial and tell them that.”

            “Dude, this is really expensive,” says Vince. “You sure you-”

            “Oh, and that’s my phone number,” Matt points, “so go ahead and bug me while I’m in class.” He grins. He’s really going to miss us.

            Later, after throwing popcorn at each other and paying no attention at all to the movies, Matt drags his comforter out of the bedroom and throws it on the living room floor. Vince doesn’t protest and rolls off the couch and onto the blanket like a log.

            We three settle in for the night. Cars pass in the street, tenants mutter and bicker through the walls, yet sleep creeps into me peaceably.

            “Promise me you guys will come back.”

            For a minute I’m not sure if I dreamed that. I yawn. “Yeah, we’ll come back.”

            Vince mumbles what I think is a yes.

            “That’s good.” Matt’s voice is getting drowsy. “My dad’s got a big project he’s working on this year, lots of traveling, so I’ll probably spend the holidays at Xavier’s.”

            “Thas awesome.” Vince mutters, rolling over. “We’re…”

            Matt turns his head to him, then to me. “Did he just fall asleep?”

            “Adorable, isn’t it?” My reflexes are getting slow because I don’t even smack him when he reaches over and pinches my nose. He giggles in the dark, and from that second’s touch I feel love, but also a little melancholy. “Matt, call me if you get lonely up here…or at school, just, talk to me…‘kay?”

            “Yeah. For sure.”

* * *

 

            _3 Weeks Later_  

 

            Heads ache from the noise as the warm scent of deep fat fryers hangs heavy on the air. Vince takes a tuft of her cotton candy. “Why aren’t you eating any?”

            “Because you still haven’t told me what it is, is it sugar?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Oh.” She pulls out a wisp and places it on her tongue. Then she points. “What’s that?”

            “Turkey legs?”

            “They’re behemoth, I need one. And then we’re going on that.” She points to a creaking green ride.

            Vince gives it one look and raises an eyebrow. “Right after you eat? That thing spins you like hell before hanging you upside-down and spinning you some more. You’ll vomit.”

            Ace gives him a withering look and strides over to the barbeque pit. “Oh, ye of little faith.”

            One turkey leg, two corn-on-the-cobs, and eighteen napkins later Ace smacks her lips smiling contentedly. Vince can’t help but smile back. “Are you ready to make yourself sick now?”

            Ace just stretches and groans. Five rides later and Ace is more light-headed than nauseous. “Woo! Now _that_ one.”

            “Yeah!” shouts Vince, also light-headed. “Thirsty. Imma get a drink first, save me a spot in line.”

            “I don’t think it works that way,” Ace shouts, but he sprints off. Ace hops into line and waits as the current ride comes to an end. People get off, and the operator opens the gate. The line starts moving. Ace looks around. 

            The gate closes again and the new ride begins. Ace inclines her ear, squinting in the sun. Then she jumps the barrier and runs.         

            Vince ducks as the guy’s fist slams into the vending machine. The plastic pops back as Vince throws his shoulder into the guy’s diaphragm forcing him into the kiosk wall. There’s now a clear shot to the exit. Vince rushes him only to stagger back as the other teenager punches him in the stomach. Another hit to the side of his head before the offender knocks him down. Vince spits. The guy swears loudly and drags him to his feet by the front of his shirt. “You’re going to pay for that, mutie.”

            “Hey, dumbass.”

            The bully turns, widens his eyes, and drops Vince. Vince grabs the guy by his shirt and reels his fist back, only for Ace to jerk him away and drag him out of the kiosk. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

            “That asshole _started_ it” Vince tries to wrench her hand off his shirt collar while looking over his shoulder. What’s wrong with _him_ why isn’t he following me?”

            “He thinks there’s a T-Rex standing outside.”

            “What the hell?”

            “Are you _bleeding_?”

            “I got punched in the face!” Vince stops resisting so much. “Why does he think- Where’re we going?”

            “To find Storm and get out of here. I can’t believe you.” 

* * *

            I lean back against the bus then jump away as the metal scorches my skin. Storm keeps one eye on a truck full of young people as she fills Scott in over the phone. Vince puffs out his cheeks and kicks a piece of gravel.

            “Are they?...Okay. We’ll be here.” Storm hangs up and turns to us, arms crossed. “How did the fight start?”

            Vince shuffles. “He called me mutie…and hit me.”

            “The other boy? And you fought back.”

            Vince nods and tugs his pants up. I look down to keep the sun off my face.

            “And how did this fight end?” she asks.

            It’s quiet for a second then Vince sniffs. I sigh through my nose. _Sorry, is it my turn to lie?_

He clears his throat and steps back. I sigh again. “When I showed up Vince was on the ground. The guy picked him up by the front of his shirt and threatened him.” I look up at Storm for a moment, disappointed to see that she trusts me. “And then I created an illusion so we could get away.”

            While Storm waits at the door for stragglers, Jaquelene sobs as her friends try to convince her her reptilian features didn’t get us noticed. Behind them, Jorge pulls his hat down over his pointed ears, and I hear Desiree hold back a sneeze to avoid glowing. Vince stares out the window as students all around us shade their eyes, pull down sleeves, and sink into seats. Again I nudge him hard in the ribs. _Tell her it was you._

He glares at me as Jaquelene continues to whimper in the seat across the aisle from us. Our bus driver, a fellow mutant, mutters under her breath. Scott sits behind us in grim silence.

 

            Outside Xavier’s office I can hear every word, so I wait on a bench downstairs where I can’t eavesdrop. Vince raises his voice at one point, and I squirm in my seat. When the door opens, it’s my turn. Vince jolts and swears as I teleport into the hallway.

            Xavier looks dour. “You know why what you did was wrong, don’t you?”

            “I know why you think it was wrong,” I say, “but I prevented Vince from becoming the victim of a hate crime.”

            “And in doing so used your ability against another person with no concern for how it may affect him.”

            “I was concerned. I picked the most harmless means of protecting my friend.”

            “You should have alerted a chaperone instead of intervening, Ace.”

            I’m having trouble not gritting my teeth. “If Scott or Storm had been standing right there of course I would’ve handed the authority over to them-”

            “It was a very irresponsible and rash decision on your part.”

            “But it was _my_ decision and I take full responsibility. I didn’t hurt him-”

            “No,” Xavier leans forward and drops his voice, “you _scared_ him. If he lashed out, he did so out of misunderstanding and fear. After today his fears are confirmed and he will continue to associate mutants with danger.”

            I lick my lips and roll my shoulders. “That was more or less the point. I am dangerous. Since this was a kid I gave him a warning. Animals give warning when they’re dangerous. He may not have seen me, but if he ever sees Vince again he’ll know better.”

            “And as for Vincent, you know him better than I, I think, so tell me what lesson he will learn from all of this? You think he will think things out as rationally as you did if _he_ sees this boy again?”

            My face warms and I look away. That’s when I see the chess board again, the one with the invisible opponent. It’s been moving busily since I was last here.

            “Ace.” Xavier says sharply. I take my time meeting his eyes again, letting him know where I was looking. “I’ve grown tired of telling you ‘don’t do it again,’ you’ve long run out of warnings. You’re going to be a senior student here come this fall and it would be reassuring if you began to act with a bit of decorum.”

            “I don’t act with decorum?”

            “And if you showed the world there’s more to being a mutant than making a flashy display of yourself for personal gain. I am not just referring to today, Ace. You’ve been using your abilities to cause trouble, and it cannot be condoned any longer. The Danger Room is off-limits until the fall semester, and any future off-campus activities must be approved by me.”

            I’d prefer to shout at him.   

 

            Vince isn’t in his room. I’m walking back down when I catch his scent, follow it to the first floor, and feel a prick of intrigue as it leads not into the lounge or the library, but out the side door.

            The weather’s ripping up another summer thunderstorm. Before even reaching the edge of the woods I’ve lost the scent, but it’s no longer relevant as I know where he went now. Adjusting my eyes to the dark, by memory I follow the path he led me down this spring. Weeds and sticks claw and catch at my bare legs as I move noiselessly through the windy woods. He’s walked far tonight.

             A small light emerges in the corner of my eye, a flickering thing- a flame from a lighter. I stop in my tracks and move behind a tree. I see Vince and someone with him. To identify the stranger the wind would have to be flowing in my direction, but if I get any closer Vince will sense my mental behavior and this man too may have advanced senses.

            They talk and their words twist around the trees, filtering fragments of the conversation over to me. The other individual has a low voice that snaps and crackles, especially when he’s making a point. Vince laughs and replies, a rare smile on his face. The stranger steps out of sight for a moment, and Vince stops laughing to lick his chapping lips. The stranger steps back into view except now he stands between me and Vince. Their words stop between the two of them.

           

            Droplets sprinkle against my face as a figure breaks the edge of the woods. I wait. Vince jogs up the porch steps, rubbing his hands together, then trips backwards down a step. “ _Shit._ What are you doing out here?”

            “Waiting for you.”

            He swallows.

“You’ve been doing this for a while now haven’t you?”

            _Stop talking so loud._

“Why?”

            “Knock it off,” his voice drops dangerously low.

“Who was that out there?” My head hurts. “Who’ve you been seeing in secret for the past few months?”

            “You actually followed me.” He gives a huff of laughter and quickly runs his fingers through his hair. “Look, I was going to tell you about it, he just didn’t want me to right away.”   

            “Vince, _who is he?”_ I get up off the bench and step toward him. He steps back. I push my way into his head. He narrows his eyes and jerks his head to the left like he’s shaking something out of his hair. “Quit that.”

            He shuts me out, but I’ve seen what I needed to. “Vince, look at me. _Look_ at me.”

            He shakes his head, rubbing his knuckles, and steps down another step. Lurching forward, I grab him by the front of his jacket then _jump_ into the darkened mudroom. He yelps as I press him against the wall.

            “Tell me who you’ve been seeing.”

            “Get off.” He struggles, trying to push me away. “Who do you think I’m seeing?”

            Furious, I recall that day a year ago, John’s scent, the heat of the explosion tinged by ice, and finally Logan lifting me up before I lost all consciousness entirely. I remember the calm of the infirmary, Jean’s steady voice, and Bobby’s eyes shining wetly under the fluorescent lights.

            Vince sinks onto the bench, breath escaping him, and I realize I’ve involuntarily transferred these memories to him. He holds his hand to his neck and moves his left foot strangely as though he can’t find a comfortable position for it. Ghost injuries. _My_ ghost injuries.

            Immediately I push his telepathy back to a safe distance. “I am so sorry-”

            “I didn’t…I didn’t know you were that close.” His voice cracks. “Ace, he wasn’t trying to…”

            He doesn’t finish the thought. I stand there, anger drained, wishing there was a less emotional way of communicating between the two of us. Somewhere in the hall the clock chimes nine. Wiping my eyes, I take a deep breath. “You want to tell the Professor, or should I?”


	18. Chapter 18

            The floor squeaks under his shoes. “Oh jeez, for _my_ sake, don’t tell-”

            “I’m doing this for your sake.” I turn down the hall toward Xavier’s office. “That man should be nowhere near this school.”

            Vince grabs me by the arm. “Okay, okay. _I’ll_ tell him.”

            “Fine,” I point, “there’s his office, go tell him.”

            He swallows and opens his mouth to say why he can’t right now, then closes it again. He looks at the door. _He just asked me to come in._

            I gnaw on my lip. _Just tell the truth._

            Wind spatters rain against the third-story window. I bounce my knee as I watch the clock. I don’t know him, this kid who I’ve been talking to for a year. Instinct tells me to run, to push him away. _You were safer not making any relationships at all._ Matt pestered me before about my feelings for Vince, trying to convince me I like him more than I pretend. I brushed him off and told myself I didn’t care. But you’re supposed to care about a friend, and that’s where I went wrong, making a friend.

             Vince stands in the doorway for the second time tonight glowering at the small man at the center of the room, the light from a spindly floor lamp reflecting off his bald head. “Yeah, what?”

            Xavier does not respond. His pen scratches over his deskwork. Vince remains standing idly.

            “You aren’t a stupid boy, Vincent.” He continues writing. “You are in fact, a very clever young man.”

            Vince scoffs aloud, then blushes. Xavier merely glances at him. “As a telepath, you should know whether or not someone is being honest when they tell you that.”

            The boy slouches, hiding his hands in his pockets and running his tongue over his teeth.

            “As a _human_ , it’s entirely up to you to decide whether or not to put faith in that opinion.” He continues to write even as Vincent’s thoughts pinball about the room- painful, mislead thoughts. Xavier bites back his anger. Not at the boy, this is not his fault. Neither was it John’s fault.

            Xavier looks up to an empty room. He sent the boy away minutes ago. The grandfather clock ticks dutifully in the corner, counting down, always, till the next hour.

 

* * *

 

            Vince slams the door to his bedroom, curses at it, then notices her. She appears sitting cross-legged on his bed, elbows resting on her knees, hands cradled, his notebook lying beside her. “What the hell?”

            She looks surprised until he snatches the notebook away. “I never touched it.”

            _“Get out.”_

            Her jaw clenches. “Don’t turn on me, Vin.”

            “No, just get out.” He gestures angrily at the door.

            “I just wanted to talk.”

            Vince holds her gaze for a moment, trying to cool off. “There’s nothing to talk about, what do you want to talk about, I’m screwed, there’s nothing to talk about.”

            She turns her head to the side. “How did he react?”

            His nostrils flare. He drops the notebook on his desk. “I don’t know, pissed? He was quiet.”

            “Was he…well, what did he say?”

            “Ace.” He runs both hands through his hair and hides behind his elbows. Maybe if he can’t see her, this won’t be so hard. “I don’t know.” When he removes his arms she’s still there, her gaze sharp. “What? Please, please, I don’t need you mad at me too.”

            “I’m not mad at you.”

            “You sure? Cuz you seem pretty…Ace I’d never…I’d never do something if I meant it to hurt anybody. I was going to tell you, definitely, I just didn’t really know what to tell yet.”

            “You knew you needed to tell me though so you must’ve had something in mind.”

            “Ace, don’t.” She huffs and uncrosses her legs. “I was going to…Pyro and I were just saying…”

            She looks up at him expectantly. _What?_

The single word carries with it too many emotions. His head feels heavy. _We never really talked about anything. He’d give me a smoke, we’d joke around, and he just…we’re friends._

Her face falls and she stands. _You won’t tell me._

He closes his eyes for a moment. _No, not yet._

* * *

 

            I step close and slip my arms around him stiffly. Hesitantly, he does the same. I rest my chin against his shoulder to make it seem less awkward, but I myself am not convinced. “I don’t want to see your name in the news.”

            His hands fidget, his anger warms. He lets his arms drop. “Could you… _try_ to have faith in me?”

            “I have a lot of faith in you.” I pull away.

            His roommate walks in and halts.

            “Get out,” Vince shouts. When the door closes Vince rubs the back of his neck, glances at the clock then immediately looks away. “Look, Ace, I can’t _wait_ to get out of this place. You are- you’re…basically the only reason I’m still here.”

            I expected that, but for the second time tonight I’m too angry to come up with something to say. Hesitantly, he takes me in another hug. His jacket smells like leaves and lighter fluid. He’s warm and I’m tired. I close my eyes and watch parts of the day reply in my mind. This morning he struggled in his seatbelt to reach a quarter on the floor of the bus, one he later blew trying to win an inflatable baseball bat. We found some ride tickets on top of a garbage can, and made ourselves dizzy on the tilt-a-whirl. He got embarrassed when I danced to a song on the loudspeakers, but shouted at two boys who heckled me for dancing.  

            Something drops loudly next door. Vince is breathing very lightly.

            “I’ll see you in the morning, Vin. Get some sleep.”

            Reluctantly, he lets go.             

            Scott opens the curtains and sunlight pours into Xavier’s study. The headmaster rubs his fingers over his lips as he dwells on a question: Why would Erik spend a whole year trying to recruit Vincent? The answer has been eluding him for days, keeping him awake, and sending him to Cerebro nightly to look out for John. It pains Charles that he did not sense him sooner, that he was even on school grounds during last year’s graduation ceremony. John hasn’t returned since the storm, and won’t know for a time yet that his informant has been found out.

            Ah, there is the answer. Magneto never _was_ trying to recruit Vincent. The boy was merely an informant, oblivious to Pyro’s wringing him for information. But what might Magneto want to hear from him? Getting regular information out of Vincent is difficult enough, so what would he talk about openly with a young man near his own age?

            Charles takes a sharp breath.

            “You alright?” Scott asks.

            He nods. “Be careful with him. His collusion wasn’t meant to harm anyone, but…make sure he isn’t misled further.”

            Scott nods. “Any ideas what he told him?”

            “Not yet.” Charles stares at the chess board.

           

            The door has a dull creak when it opens. She never announces herself, silent as a drop in temperature. Two years and it’s still eerie that he can’t hear her. It’s almost like being normal.

            Releasing his grip on the arm of the chair, he sits up straight and smiles briefly. She has an adverse reaction if you appear too friendly. “Please, sit down.”

            “Is this about Vince?” she asks, continuing to stand.

            “I am not angry with him, he’s not in trouble.”

            She considers this then takes a seat. “So what do I do?”

            He closes his eyes with relief. “Of the things you’ve told me about yourself, how much have you told him?”

            “Some,” she says, going tense. “What would they want to know?”

            He notes her glance at the chessboard. “You’re not a game piece, Ace.” Not yet.

            “Then what is Vince? Do they even want him?”

            There’s a steadiness in her tone that he does not believe. “He is a small piece.”

            “Expendable.” Her brow bends.

            “How deep he is relies on his own understanding of his position.” He observes her carefully. “Now I have no belief that he was willfully coalescing with a member of the Brotherhood with the intent to bring harm to anyone. However, as he is now caught up in things I need to know how caught up he _means_ to be.”

            Ace fiddles with a loose thread on the arm of the chair. “I only knew about this the night I told you.”

            Frustration. “If you know anything, now is _not_ the time to hold it back.”

            She bites down hard on her tongue. “On our last visit, Matt asked us to stop calling him Sonus. Matt having a name meant something to Vince, and when he dropped it I think Vince took it personally.”

            Charles chooses his words carefully. “By your understanding of him, could something like this affect his decisions concerning the Brotherhood?”

            “You think he’ll join them.”

            “I am asking what you think.”

            She tugs on the thread.

            “How can we help him make the right decision?”

            “He doesn’t want to be helped.” She abandons the thread and presses her hands between her knees. “He trusts me most of the time, but then he gets afraid and pushes me away.”

            “You’re describing yourself when you first came here,” says Xavier quietly.

            Ace just stares at her knees.

 

            “Hey, kid.”

            Disgruntled, Vince scoots over as Logan sits beside him at the breakfast table. “I’m waiting for Ace.”

            “No kidding.” Logan takes a long gulp of coffee, clearly with no intention of leaving. “So, what is it about her that you like?”

            Vince flushes, but looks at Logan with what he hopes resembles ignorance. The man stares right back.

            “She’s…a good person. We’re friends.” Vince smells the cigar on him and bounces his leg. “Why?”

            “Because she is a good person,” Logan turns his head and looks down at him, “and I wanted to make sure you knew that.”

            The boy sinks into his seat. “Yeah. Is that all you want me to know?”

            “You hurt her I’m hunting you down.”

* * *

 

            Thirteen texts from Matt on his first day of class- he added five new friends to his Facebook and only one of them is male. Vince taps his foot impatiently while chewing nicotine gum. His knee knocks against mine. “Roof?”

            I furrow my brow. “Not today.”

            “Geez, you don’t want to go any day. You don’t want to play video games, you don’t want to swim in the lake-”

            “You hate the lake.” I glance in its direction, hearing shrieks and splashes. “And Saturday I wanted to play games and you said ‘No, they all suck.’ ”

            He kicks a piece of gravel. “Better than just sitting here waiting for another text from Captain Dumbass. Then you’re going to have Danger and what’ve I got?”

            “Well, go see if there’s anything on TV, or read a book. Otherwise, I don’t know what to do for you.”

            The permanent scowl on his face deepens.

            Classes at Xavier’s commenced a few days ago, and we’ve accepted quite a large number of students this year. We even have an eight-year-old now whom Scott had me coach yesterday as our class introduced newcomers to the Danger Room. Most were understandably shy about their mutations, but they would defer to me when they had questions, as though I was an expert in all things Xavier’s.

            In the locker room, Terry and I have a short contest to see who can slam their locker loudest before racing each other to the Danger Room where Storm is filling in for Scott. The Brotherhood too have amassed, so teaching schedules often have last minute changes as X-Men recoup from dealing with them. As Danger students, we need to be up to performance in case the next last minute change involves us.

            In this regard Xavier has a right to be concerned with what I’ve told Vince. Vince may not know much about the X-Men, but he knows anything I’ve told him about the Danger Room and its pupils. He could easily have given John names, performance scores, ability descriptions, and any other comments I’ve made on my classmates. Wear the X-Men down and when they turn to their pupils for extra help, make sure the prime ones have defected to the stronger party. I’ve declared no loyalty, have no family, no identity, and am in control of a trove of abilities. Neither the Professor nor Magneto know which way I might fall if a little pressure were added. It doesn’t matter which side Vince chooses, so long as he prompts me to choose a side.

            The phone blips. Vince snickers.

            “What’d he say?”

            “Nuthin’.” He texts back. After setting the phone down, he takes out his earbuds and looks at me. “You still mad at me?”

            I raise my eyes. Three essays and a research paper due nearly at once when writing is not my strong suit. _About you talking to Pyro?_

            He shrugs and nods his head.

            _No, I’m not mad._ I finish copying down an excerpt from the textbook. _You’ve stopped doing it, right?_

            _They don’t even let me off the lawn, Ace._

            Eraser dust gets in the way of my work and I sweep it off. _When was his next visit supposed to be?_

            _A week ago._ Vince continues to ignore his own work. _Logan and them went out to deal with him I think because they asked me when he’d show up. I guess he never did._

            “Ace.”

            I turn to see Logan standing by the study hall exit.

            “We need to talk.”

            Out in the hall, we step around the corner into a windowed alcove. “I take it you know all that’s going on?”

            I tug at the hem of my shirt. “Some of it.”

            “Right, well,” he rubs his unshaven chin, “whatever you’ve heard, we’ve got it handled, a’right? You just go on with your schoolwork.”

            “What’s going to happen with Vince? Will he be expelled?”

            “Not as far as I know.”

            I nod and run my finger over the windowsill. “How are you guys doing? You’re out a lot.”

            “Could use a beer.”

            Butting the toe of his shoe with mine, I note that he refrained from answering the real question. “Where does he go after this, after he’s eighteen?”

            “Wherever he wants to, I s’pose.”

            We look at each other, both thinking the same uneasy thought.

            “He’s got a mind of his own, darlin’. You can’t control your friends.”

            I had hoped that if Logan said it, it might be true.

            Vince pops out an earbud as soon as he sees me. “What’s wrong?”

            “Nothing.” I chew my lip. “How far are you on your paper?”

            “Can you just tell me what’s wrong?”

            Vince has deep, liquid eyes. When he sits he leans forward because his hands are always in his jacket pockets, making him appear earnest. He doesn’t back down when I stare at him over the table.

            “Nothing’s wrong.” I pick up the pen and lean over my book.

            “Okay,” he scratches his nose, “then why are you upset?”

            I bite my tongue. _Did you talk to Pyro about me?_

            For a fraction of a moment, he considers lying. He sinks into his seat with a look of self-disgust. “How’d you know?”

            “Same way I know when you’re in trouble.” The pen marks harsh lines in the page. “You really have no idea what you’ve done?”

            Vince stares blankly. 

            _Whatever you told him, Magneto now knows. You put me on the map._

            _What does that mean, what map?_

            _I don’t exist, Vince. Ace isn’t my real name, I don’t have a real name I’m nobody._

            Vince shrugs. _So Magneto knows you exist, big deal, what’s that got to do with-_

            _God,_ I slam the pen down, _I_ _should’ve just kept my mouth shut, should’ve never come here, should never have- Get out of my head._

            He pushes his chair back and storms off.


	19. Chapter 19

 

           Wrappers crackle as we open our vending machine “dinner” in the university cafeteria. Since passing through the college gates, Matt has greeted thirteen people, and instead of introducing them as “Jeff from Econ 1” or “Hannah from Statistics” everyone he knows is from some social event.

            “He was so drunk ohmygod,” gushes one toothy blonde. “I thought he’d fall down the stairs.”

            “I know right?” Matt laughs. Vince mocks him and I throw a candy bar at his arm.

            “It’s nice to see how much college has improved you, Matthew,” I say once she’s out of ear-shot. “You’re truly a mature adult.”

            He grins.

            “How the hell do you get to your apartment from here?” Vince asks, flipping through an open geography book someone left behind. “Seriously, that’s a heckuva commute.”

            “Train.” Matt shrugs. “It’s better to say you have an apartment in New York City than share a dorm on campus. ‘Sides, Dad’ll stop paying if I don’t keep using it.”

            “Well, what do you do if you’ve got a girl.” Vince asks brazenly. “Say ‘Hey, it’s sorta an hour to my schmancey apartment in the Village. Oh yeah, by train’?”

            Matt bursts out laughing.

            “You guys are gross.” I lift a snack package and investigate the ingredients.

            Vince sups an energy drink. “Hey, Mattie, bathroom?”

            “Around that corner to the left.” When he’s gone Matt leans across the table. “What’s up with him? Is it still the…?”

            I nod. “We only got out today because I promised I’d be with him the whole time.”

            “Do they know you’re…teleporting now?”

             “Yeah. Nobody liked it much, but the Professor thinks it’s a safe way to get Vin out of the house.”

            Matt’s shoulders slump. “Look…Vince has always been pretty…troubled.”

            “He’s doing better. He’s not smoking anymore, and I’m helping him get his schoolwork done.” I pick up another package and read those ingredients. “We don’t really talk about things anymore though. I know he’s not like Johnny, but I did hope he was smarter. Please, don’t tell him I said that.”

            “Oh, hell no. I just wish I had something useful to say. He’s the kind of kid who’s gonna do what he wants.”

            “Has he talked to you?”

            “Yeah, but it wasn’t exactly stuff he wanted me to share with you.”     

            “Did he tell you about John or what they talked about?”

            “Hey, I didn’t know about the Pyro thing until you told me. See, Vin thinks he can change the world, okay, he’s one of _those_ kids. He thinks if he shouts and rebels loud enough things will get better.” Matt glances in the direction of the bathrooms. “He doesn’t even like telling me this stuff because he knows I think it’s stupid, but he’s afraid if he tells you you’ll tell the Professor.”

            I ball up an empty package. “Vin needs to learn that there are some adults who can help him. Trying to run his own life almost got him sent to juvie. If it weren’t for Xavier he probably would never have gotten this far in school, let alone learn how to live with his mutation.”

            “But he can’t leave the school without an escort. Isn’t that a little weird?”

            “He’s a parentless minor with a criminal record, what do you think?” The plastic crinkles in my hand. “If it becomes known Xavier lets him hang around terrorists, the whole school gets called into question.”

            “So, Vince’s freedom gets sacrificed for every other student there.”

            “He’s a ward of the state. Until he’s eighteen, adults make his decisions for him. After that, he can screw his life up as much as he wants. Shut up, he’s coming.”

            Matt sits back and stuffs some chips in his mouth, crunching away with purpose. Vince sits down cautiously. “What’s wrong?”

            “Nothing.” I herd the empty wrappers into a pile. “We should get going.”

            “Okay.” He shoots a look at Matt. “Thanks for dinner, Mattie. My compliments to the chef.”

            Matt opens his chip-filled mouth. “You’re welcome, asshole.”

 

            Over the break I practice teleporting, visiting places for a few minutes and returning before anyone notices. If a security camera might catch me in action, I could practice turning them off- Matt’s old roommate Dylan was more helpful than he thought.

            By March I finally allow the stress of our impending graduation to the forefront. It’s a small comfort knowing that many of my classmates are in the same predicament of not having homes or families to return to. Still, they all seem bent on college.

            “You haven’t shown any interest in college,” notes Xavier when I finally approach him.

            “I don’t plan on going. I’d need papers.”

            He nods understandingly. “Still, it is a very expansive learning environment. You’d enjoy it especially.”

            Then I’ll haunt a college library. “I just don’t know where to go from here. When the school year ends I don’t want to be an added burden.”

            “Oh no, nothing of the sort. We have displaced students at the end of every school year. Most move on, but some choose to stay and find work around campus. Our kitchen and cleaning staff are mostly former students, and of course so were most of your teachers.” He awaits my decision patiently. “Would you want to stay?”

            “At least until I know where I’m going, if that’s alright. And if I may remain anonymous.”

            “You may.” He crooks his brow. “At some point you’re going to need to be a legalized citizen. It has its advantages.”

            “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. I honestly don’t remember my original identity, and whatever it may have been I’d like to stick with this one a little while longer.”

            “Well,” he smiles paternally, “then take my advice and stay as long as you need.”

 

            Deep laughter echoes down the hall. Storm has that dry smile she gets when she’s made someone laugh, a dominating smile. Logan wipes a moist eye as he regains his composure. When he sees me he nods his head and holds out his hand. “Here, kid.”

            A pair of enticingly pretty egg-shaped things roll into my hand, their gold and green foil skin shining dully.

            “They’re a little soft ‘cause I was holdin’ em.” He states.

            “Thanks.” I’m not sure how that’s relevant.

            Storm laughs now. “They’re chocolate, don’t worry.”

            “You’ve never seen those before?” Logan asks.

            “Yeah, I’ve seen them.” Curiosity never compelled me to desire one though. I roll them back and forth in my hand.

            Snow drifts sleepily past the windows, gracing the lawn and gardens with quickly melting kisses. I hand Vince one of the eggs. “These are apparently a ‘tradition’. Tell me if I’m eating them wrong.”

            He shakes his head as he sheds the wrapper. “Geez, are there any holidays you have celebrated?”

            “Not American ones.”

            Carefully, Vince flicks a leftover speck of foil off the chocolate. “You’re not American?”

            “I wasn’t raised in America.” I gnaw at the chocolate experimentally.

            He opens the cafeteria door with his shoulder as the chocolate shell cracks between his teeth. He licks his lips. “So what do you consider yourself if you’re not American?”

             “I’m…from Earth.”

            He raises one eyebrow.

            Once we’re seated Vince clears his throat. “So-” accidentally drops his straw and quickly stoops to get it, “you going to prom?”

            “Oh, absolutely.”

            He smiles quietly and flips hair out of his eyes. “You weren’t even considering it were you?”

            “All I know about prom is that Matt went last year and no underdog was publicly humiliated by the school beauty queen, so it sounded like a bit of a disappointment.”

            “And no pig’s blood.” He winks.

            I roll my eyes. “Your horror movies are disgusting.”

            “You know, you’d at least expect that scene to be a yearly thing in a school full of superpowers. That actually is a big disappointment now that I think about it. We should watch that instead of going to prom.”

            I shake my head. “I’m good. Besides, the lounge is where all the littler kids will be on prom night.”    

            “I watched it when I was little,” he remarks.

            “Look at your childhood as a whole then rethink that statement.”

            He chews on his cheek. “Yeah, good point.”

            In silence, I watch his next movements; the way he snaps the wrapper off the straw and opens the wrong end of the paper carton, mechanically arranging his burger the way he likes it, then wolfing it down. 

* * *

 

            Unexpectedly, she reaches across and gently unclenches his fingers from his milk carton. Quickly, he releases it, his skin tingling, and it wobbles out of his grip. “God, I’m fucked up.”

            She sits back. “The milk carton can’t hurt you.”

            He chuckles ruefully and drags his fingers through his hair. “I wouldn’t turn my back on one though.”

            She smiles and crosses her arms on the table, pulling her hands into her sleeves. “They are sneaky.”

            _Why did you do that?_ he wants to ask, rubbing her touch off on his jeans. There’s a lump in his pocket where he kept the tin foil, a habit from his childhood. “Thanks for the chocolate, by the way.”

            “Logan gave it to me.”

            He starts. “And you let me eat one? They could be poisoned.”

            She snorts. “No. I can’t see poisoning as his style.”

            “Right. So you don’t want to go to prom?”

            “What?”

            “Never mind.” He inhales sharply.

            The abused milk carton gets thrown away and out of sight. 

* * *

 

            Matt hums mundanely, wiping ketchup off his mouth. Sandwich wrappers crinkle as Vince searches our tray for a few lost fries. A greasy toddler cavorts past the booth with a drippy ice cream cone as a double-date laughs competitively at the table next to us. Since our arrival, fifteen people have entered the restaurant. I keep in mind the number of guests in the bathrooms, the ratio of men to women, children to adults, and any causal factors that would make Vince bristle.  

            Matt hiccups into his fist. “So, anything new and happening at the school?”

            “Scott and Jean are still planning their wedding,” I say through my fingers. “It’s supposed to happen this summer.”

            “About time.” He inhales a curly fry. “They were engaged when I got there.”

            “Oh, geez.” Vince stretches and glances at the television. “I’m tired of hearing about this _wedding_.”

            “Dude, are you ever not annoyed by anything?”

            “Don’t bug him, Matt.” I warn.

            “Well, it’s like we can’t say anything without-”

            “Hey,” Vince blurts at the TV. Matt and I look at the screen.

            “Oh yeah, I heard about that.” Matt says. “Guy who slept with Miranda Kerr got kidnapped.”

            “He never slept with Miranda Kerr.” Vince corrects, annoyed.

            The newscaster is babbling on at an unintelligible pace, and the closed captions can’t keep up. “Who are they talking about?”

            “My dad hates him, says he’s a drunk prick.”

            “Your dad hates everybody.” Vince’s tolerance level is dropping. “He’s that inventor I told you about."

            I hear the words _"presumed dead"_ as they replay footage from Afghanistan. “That’s a shame, you only just told me about him. What was he doing in Afghanistan?”

            Vince doesn’t reply, just stares at the screen. Matt nudges him with his elbow. “He threw a good party. Dad has to give him that.”

            Vince remains focused on the television for the rest of the meal, becoming impatient when they drop the story in favor of more talk about President Ellis’ plans for the economy. The Professor asked us to take the bus today as he doesn’t have much confidence in my teleportation yet. I wrap up Vince’s sandwich and stuff it in my bag before Matt can get to it, then refill his drink before we go. By the time we get on the Beeline, the sandwich is limp and cold, and the drink is seeping out the bottom of the cup.       

            Matt gets us to come back after exams for a small party in his apartment. Vince and I don’t stay long, nor do we linger at the following beach party in the Hamptons. Because I’ve been more open about where Vince and I go when we visit Matt, our mentors are less willing to allow us leave. Matt keeps inviting, but I have to start declining.

            On one occasion, Matt gets only a little tipsy after half a bottle of champagne making it clear that alcohol has become a regular hobby of his. Vince just wants to leave.

            Matt walks us to the elevator and gives me a hug. “Take care of the floppy-haired one. I’ll be lesh smashed nex’ time.”

            I hug him back.

 

            _Senior Trip 2009: Six Flags New Jersey_

            A violent roar rushes over our heads, accompanied by exhilarated screaming. Turnstiles click, bags are checked, and everyone is handed a park map by Scott. “Stay in your groups, and we meet back here at nine. Don’t forget.”

            The day passes well. Vince remains inexplicably content even though our group is rowdy and often does things that should annoy him. By eight-thirty every park ride has been exhausted, every carnie game avoided twice, and our tongues are dyed from snow cone syrup. I swat a blinking pendant out of my face as Terry laughs in a tired, airy way. Another group from Xavier’s merges with our own, so Vince falls back and I with him.

            After a time he takes me by the arm and pulls me away from the rest of them. “C’mere a sec.”

            I follow him behind kiosks and landscaping to a maintenance gate in the outer fence. By his hand on my arm I can feel his excitement growing. I start to worry. “Vin where are we-”

            “Hang on. I’ve been dying to tell you sooner, but I figured you’d be mad at me.” In the dim light of the lamp over the gate I can see he’s smiling. Taking a breath, he squeezes my arm. “Okay, you know how you, y’know, practice in the Danger Room, and everyone else are training to be X-Men, but you’re just training to be better?”

            I don’t think he’s ever been this excited about anything. Is that good?

            “But you’re so much better than them, and you want to help people, but you don’t like the X-Men.”

            “I’ve never said that.”

            “Well, okay, but you don’t want to be an _X-Man_ , but you’re training because you know you’re gonna need it, right?”

            “Vince, where are you going with this?” He’s incredibly nervous, but he’s smiling.

            “I’m joining the Brotherhood.”

            I choke back a laugh before realizing he’s serious.

            “Ace, this is- I don’t know how to explain it, but they’re exactly where I need to be. They’re making a change. Standing around with- with signs and banners doesn’t work, nobody pays any attention to that anymore. You see people with banners outside the White House all the time and nothing changes-”

            “So _terrorism_ ,” I put extra emphasis on the word, “is a better idea?”

            “Terror- no, no, don’t- they aren’t- You can’t generalize them like that.”

            There’s a lot I don’t know about Vince, but I do know that “generalize” is not part of his daily vocabulary.

            “You’re still talking to someone aren’t you?” I quickly become aware of his phone in my shoulder bag, put there to keep it safe while we were on a ride.

            “Look, they want to help people get their rights. They’re tackling issues the X-Men are ignoring like mutant kids not being allowed in public schools. I mean seriously, they get labeled crap like ‘terrorists’ by the same people who called blacks in the civil rights movement terrorists.”

            “Peaceful protesters are one thing, but calling a cult of destructive mutants-”

            “They’re _not_ a cult. Ace, you want to help people, don’t you?”

            My mouth is dry. “What’s that got to do with-”

            “Come with me. I really, I mean I really, you know I really like you, and you’re so much better at- I just didn’t want to leave without you. I want- I need you to come with me, please. When John asked me he said-”

            “No.” I step back. “I’m not doing this. You’re not doing this. Tell me why we’re back here, why tonight, why’d you tell me tonight?”

            “Because we planned tonight, they’re outside waiting for me.”

            “Outside the gate?” 

            “No, they said they’d be waiting in a car, there’s a staff parking lot back there.”

            “Who’s- No. Vinny, you’re not doing this.” I take him by the hand. “We are getting on that bus, and we’re going home.”

            That’s when he jerks his hand away. “Fuck no. I don’t _have_ a home, Xavier’s is _not_ my home. And it’s not your home either. We’re graduating _._ We’re out of that place in less than a week.”

            “You haven’t graduated yet. The ceremony isn’t until Saturday, you don’t have your diploma.”

            “I won’t need it.”

            “Why are you doing this?” Panic rises in my throat, affecting my speech. This kind of thing can’t happen twice. “What is it that makes you want to join these people?”

            “Ace isn’t your real name,” he interrupts, “and last fall you said I ‘put you on the map’. Whose map, who are you hiding from? Your parents? Your _human_ parents?”

            Tempted to hit him, I try to douse my own anger. “You’d been talking to John about me. What are _his_ motives, Vin? You think he just up and joined the Brotherhood because he wanted to _help people?_ The man came back and attacked his senior class, I don’t think Xavier taught him to do that.”

            “Magneto-” 

            “Magneto doesn’t care about your life, he just wants to use it, just like he’s using John, just like he’s using all these low, scared, angry people for _his_ agenda, and you’re going to become-”

            “Of course they are. Why, why would you expect them to be anything else?” His voice cracks as it rises. “We all are- pissed. Pissed off because we’ve had enough of being pushed around and beat on-”

            “Who’s beating you?”

            “No one- That’s not the point. I want to _do_ something, so they can’t crush us anymore, so no one can ever crush us again. They hate us, they think we’re a degenerate species for shit’s sake! But mutants are bigger than them and someone needs to show them that.”

            “Who’s _they,_ Vincent? Do you even know what you’re running from?”

             “I’m not running from anything, I’m- Geez, you are so completely- You know, the world’s going down the tubes, alright? and I don’t want to be flushed with it by a bunch of weak cowards.” 

            I hold my arms around my stomach. “I think you are running. I think you’re still running from your dad.”

            He lowers his chin and clenches his fists. “This has nothing to do with that, don’t even bring it up.”

            “You think Magneto’s going to kill your dad for you?”

            “What the hell did I just say? This isn’t about- Fuck, that’s none of your business, Ace.”

            “Then why are you trying to get me to come with you? I want to know why you’re going and you haven’t given me the real answer.”

            “I-” Unexpectedly he gives a low, sardonic chuckle. “No. No, you don’t want to know why I’m going. It’s funny though, because I thought it all up, I just never thought I’d actually have the chance to tell you.”

            “You wouldn’t have the chance to tell me. You just expected me to come with you just like that?”

            He takes a breath, pauses, licks his lips, then takes another breath. “I’m going because of you, Ace. I’m going because you make me want to go. I’ve seen the way you act at school, and I know you snuck out over winter break. And you pretend so hard that you’re normal _,_ but you keep grafting these plagiarized abilities onto yourself. And I know why you do it, it’s defense, it’s like carrying around a- a switchblade. You think all these powers you’re collecting are going to protect you from whatever’s coming? Well that’s freakin’ wonderful for you, but me, I don’t have what you got, I don’t have an ability I can whip out of nowhere or invisibility so I can hide. I’ve just got me, and no one holding up my case. Except for Magneto.    

            “There’s a whole army of us, people who are scared, and angry, and fed up who don’t want to sit around and pretend they’re normal right up to the day someone holds a gun to their head. This, the Brotherhood is _my_ mutation collection, and I’ve got all of them to back me up. You’ve only got you, and I’ve seen what a mess that is, and I sure as hell don’t want to become a sad poser like you.”

            With that he opens the gate and walks out, leaving it wide open so I can see the waiting parking lot. Every inch of me feels raw and exposed. There’s salt rubbed into my skin and fire in my bones. “I hope Magneto makes a good daddy.”

            He runs back with such force that he nearly topples as I dance out of his way. Yelling unintelligibly, he tries to grab my arm, but only catches my shirt.

            _“You fucking take that back._ ”

            In a childish fury he fumbles to hit me, but I phase through his blow, escaping his grip.

            “You’re such a wimp,” he mocks, eyes wet and shining. “You really are just a big-mouthed, needy _girl_.”

            ‘Girl’ rolls off his tongue in a vulgar way and I’m thrown backward in time. All that pain and fear and shock comes back, sinking into me and making my legs like jelly. My stomach turns and my skin crawls and I begin to disappear. No. No, that person is dead. I can’t be hurt this way again. “Do whatever the hell you want.”  

            Some nightmares begin with running. You don’t know what you’re running from, but you know better than to stop. Fists tight, palms sweating, knowing if you slow down even a little you’ll lose momentum and never get it back. Still, I slow to a brisk stride as I approach the front entrance. Scott Summers stands waiting, arms crossed, glasses faintly glowing red, and in that moment more intimidating than ever.

            “There you are,” he condemns with an edge of relief. “Meeting time was seven minutes ago, where were you?”

            I lower my eyes unintentionally. “Bathroom girl stuff.”

            His reserve quavers, but recovers. “Go get on the bus.”

            Up the steps past the arms and legs, backpacks and souvenirs, all the way to the farthest corner where I willfully squeeze past two of my grumbling classmates, forcing my hysterical heart to quiet down before someone hears it.    

            After three more minutes Scott boards the bus, and I duck my head and let my hair fall over my face, counting his steps as they come closer. He leans over the seat.

            “Ace, where is he?”

            “He’s not coming.”

            “What do you mean he’s not coming, where _is_ he?”

            “He’s not in the park, he’s gone.” I face him.

            “ _How_ is he gone?”

            I chew on my lip and turn away again. “He got another ride.”

            “Ace-”

            “I’m not being vague, Scott, he’s really not coming.” My breath appears on the window.

            “Then where did he _go_?”

            “I don’t know, he left! He left.”

            _“With who?”_

            I try begging with my eyes. “Can I tell you later?” No, he’s not taking that, he’s in a panic himself. The whole of the bus is turned around looking at me, hundreds of thoughts, milling about, careening and crashing like a hoard of whining gnats.

            _The Brotherhood._

            For a moment Scott doesn’t react, just stares at me with those glowing eyes. Then he turns and walks back up the aisle.


	20. Chapter 20

            My bedroom door slams so hard the lamp on my desk tips off and onto the floor. I stare hard at the door, wishing I could blow it open again at will. Stupid idiot. Stupid, gullible, insecure, _jerk_.

            Backing away from the door I immediately trip over my shoes left lying by the bed, and hit my head on the mattress’ edge. One shoe hits the wall, but the other trips me again out of spite, so I kick it across the room then turn around and kick the mattress too.

            He’ll be back soon, he _has_ to be. He’s too dumb to last on his own and too smart to believe fellow idiots for long. I sit down hard on the floor, cross my legs, and concentrate, eyes closed. Static buzzes around my head, but its faintness fizzles out like a lost radio signal. I should’ve been able to stop him this time. I could’ve grabbed him and jumped, just jumped back to the bus and forced him on. Why didn’t I do that, why didn’t I try harder to stop him? I just yelled at him. I’m the only person he trusted, and I blew it. 

            Drained, I slouch against the bed. Rolling my head to the side I stare at one of my shoes lying on its side a few feet away from the lamp. Who am I kidding?

            “What?” I demand of a knock at my door.

            Logan sighs through his nose as he enters. “I’m sorry.”

            “Wasn’t your fault.” I run my fingers over the slopes of my fingernails. “Is Xavier looking for him?”

            “Yeah.”

            “What happens if he finds him?”

            “Then we go get him.”

            “Just like that?”

            “Just like that. He forgot to pack up his room before he went. Can’t leave until he’s packed.”

            That reminds me. Leaning to the side, I hook my finger in my bag’s strap and pull it towards me.

            “He used that to text whoever picked him up, I’m sure,” I say, tossing Logan Vince’s phone. I’m going to have to call Matt about dropping the plan. Well, I’m going to have to call Matt about a lot of things.

            Logan examines the phone broodingly. “Look…I’m not going to be here this summer, I’m taking off.”

            _Take me with you,_ I’m dying to beg.

            “You gonna be alright?”

            Disappointed, but not surprised. Since Scott and Jean announced their wedding I’ve been expecting something like this. “Have a good vacation.”

            It was the best I could do, but he still sighs. “We’ll see.”

 

            Matt turned into a man when he put this gown on a year ago, and I wonder if this means I’ve finally stopped being a girl. When they’re thrown, I drop my cap on the ground and start walking back to the building. Logan’s probably looking for me so I hide in the crowd then turn invisible. No one seems to notice.

            In the locker room I shed the baggy costume and put on my suit. Like a second skin it fits perfectly feeling comfortable and cool. With a sigh of relief I look in the mirror. It shows me nothing and I laugh. Still invisible.

            Danger hums. Her intangible fingers marionette my aggressors, clutching them, swarming them. I let her do her worst, and in reply she gives me the simplest objective: get into a room that has no entrance. Except the walls are nearly impossible to phase through and there are several acres of deadly fighters between here and there. Three of my three hundred aggressors have been _in_ the room and will know what it looks like from the inside. Danger probably laughs, but only to herself.  

            As I dance through the flurry of fists and masked faces, making my way across the short distance, I keep my world quiet and my mind open. Three minds, there are three minds in here that can give me an image of the room. I slip around figures all restless with virtual life, all trying to crush me down, hold me back, force me to lose. Finding him at last, I clasp a hand over the first vulnerable mind. He shouts and I quickly let go. He’s seen the floor, the literal carpet of the objective room, and nothing else. Highly unhelpful.

Halfway there I quickly down mind number two. Eight opponents grasp at me as I try to find my image. Their touch interrupts the process and my world gets noisy again, echoing labored breath and dozens of heartbeats. I let go of my man, another unhelpful image of the room, and disappear.

            This vanishing tactic only works until I bump into someone. Normal humans wouldn’t suspect a strange bump in a crowded room, but these are Danger’s avatars. _She_ knows what that bump means. Startled, I accidentally kill an aggressor as he strikes at my invisible face. Fear for what I’ve done fills me. Then I remember this isn’t real life.

            My third and last key was staring at the room’s ceiling when his mental camera clicked. I make room for myself in the several inches of space allowed me by this image, and telekinesis softens the landing as I hit the carpeted floor.

 

            Storm smiles proudly as maid of honor, not allowing expected precipitation to ruin her best friends’ big day. Some of the female students cry, including Rogue and Kitty who returned for the event. Kurt is back to officiate, and I’ve never seen Scott so happy or so nervous. It would’ve been fascinating to see Logan in a tux, like seeing a giraffe trying to board a bus.

            Afterward, Piotr greets me warmly since he always liked me for some reason, and Kitty seems to be hugging everybody, so I accept that as well. At the reception I hear Rogue ask where Logan is and feel it’s time to go.

            Danger gladly welcomes me back.

* * *

 

            “Yes. Thank you for your help. Goodbye.”

            Once the phone is safe in its cradle, Xavier gives a heartfelt sigh. Vincent Detmer’s file is placed in a drawer and shut away. _It’s taken care of. You did everything you could._ This thought wearies him.

            Cerebro couldn’t find the boy. He was out of range before the party returned home. Erik no doubt has more than one way of shielding his followers from prying eyes. After this fruitless search, the numerous calls, the stacks of paperwork, and the _very_ loosely veiled condemnation from social welfare representatives have been steadfastly eating away at his resolve.

            Perhaps it hurts most to know that there is nothing wrong with the boy? A lifetime of being held back hadn’t proven to damage him, not in Charles’ eyes. While there was only so far his mutant ability might progress, he was by no means lacking in potential. Vincent had talents he wasn’t aware of yet, qualities that needed time to mature. Under the tutelage of Magneto, these traits will unfortunately be trained for questionable use, undermining all that Xavier had intended. This isn’t how it should have ended.

            The office is in darkness, the sun having set nearly an hour ago. A white ribbon from a party favor glows in what light is left from the twilit yard outside.

            _Stop this,_ he chides himself. _Two of your best students are now happily married, and you just sent off a whole class of beaming, capable young adults ready to start their lives as well. You haven’t failed entirely. You aren’t an utter fraud._

            Yet even this isn’t enough to stem his guilt.                       

* * *

 

            Two days after Vince left I made the call to Matt, delaying on the measly hope that the Professor might actually locate him. Matt drapes an arm around my shoulders and leads me out to the driveway. “He won’t be gone for long. I ran away once, got bored, and came home.”

            I climb into the passenger seat of Matt’s BMW. “You and Vin aren’t exactly the same type of kid. He hasn’t had a life anywhere near as stable as yours, no matter what you’ve got against your parents.”

            “So he _should’ve_ run away?”

            “No, I just don’t think he’ll be back as soon as you were. And he’s running directly into serious trouble whereas I’m pretty sure you just ran to the nearest strip club.”

            “Hey, I did not.” He pulls onto the road. “There weren’t exactly any nearby.”

            Talking with Matt helps me forget whatever’s bothering me. When I told him the news he sounded upset, but soon had me laughing about something entirely different. However our minds must have moved onto the same melancholy track because with a swift click the stereo’s on and we are drowned in sticky bubblegum pop.

            The clubs he likes aren’t open yet, though the rhythm coming from a swing hall feels like it wants me. We hit the theater, bearing slick popcorn and rattling box candy to the front row. I prefer the back, but Matt loves the thick layer of noise at the front. I usually bring earplugs so I don’t go into shock.

            I’m not sure what we’re watching today, some cheesy action film. I pick it apart and point out all the inaccuracies, which he loathes almost as much as I loathe his choice of film. Then the timely arrival of the obligatory sex scene in which the badass female reveals a black lace brassiere under her bulletproof armor- unadulterated nonsense; the bra isn’t even sweaty, there are no red marks on her shoulders where the straps dug in, and she never once complained about having that itchy thing trapped against her skin beneath all that armor. Discreetly, I leave to refill my soda.

            “Junior Mints and a large coke,” I say in my best “don’t hurry” tone to the chubby girl behind the counter.

            “Coke?” she inquires.

            “Dr. Pepper.”

            “Junior Mints regular or frozen?”

            “Fro-…Regular."

           

            I get us into a twenty-one and over club at Matt’s insistence. He’s dressed to the nines, though there’s a slight butter smear on the front of his silk shirt. The bar is set only slightly higher here in terms of dancing ability than at the school, so I don’t let myself be intimidated. Closing my eyes, I empty my head and exclude everything but the music, dancing until anger and disappointment slip off me.

            Even as closed off as I am, I know there are a hundred and eighty-two people in the building, twenty open drinks at the bar, five exits, four plainclothes security guards, and every time the electronic register swallows money it tells me the amount paid. But these details are kept on the periphery. Meanwhile, Matt’s loyal enough, dancing by me as he scans the crowd for something in a short skirt.

            When we pause for a drink, Matt taps me on the shoulder. “That one.”

             Slinky top and too-high glittering heels. “She’s like, twenty-one.”

            “No shit, we’re in a twenty-one establishment.” His eyes follow her as she walks off the floor. “Watch my drink.”

            “What- Matt.” Too late, I’m already abandoned. I finish off his drink. “Can I get another just like this one, but less sweet?”

            “I’m buying,” volunteers a complete stranger.

            “No, the guy I came with is buying. Feel free to charge extra.”

            The stranger sidles up to me. “Boyfriend’s giving you a bad night huh?”

            “And is there any chance I can buy the whole bottle?” The stranger laughs under his breath, so I finally acknowledge him. “You walk and talk just like the half-wit I came with, so if you think you’re smart you’ll get scarce.”

            “Whoah,” he raises his eyebrows, “you’re not kidding. Hey, I’m not like him.”

            His hand brushes my shoulder and I’ve had it. _Get up and walk away right now, bub._

            Instantly, the stranger obeys, forgetting the cash he meant to pay for my drink.

            “Here ‘tis,” jokes the bartender, handing me my glass. “Less sweet.”

            I look at the guy I just sent away, trying to figure out how that worked. I didn’t audibly speak to him though with his blood alcohol level he can rationalize away the strange feeling of someone putting things in his head-

            _That’s it_. The telepathic twins, the ones I met over a year ago, one of them could _make_ people do things. Has that just been lying dormant all this time? I haven’t practiced it because it’s unsettling.

            “Damn, she’s here with her fiancé. Where’s my drink?” Matt takes a sip of mine. “Ugh, it tastes like diet.”

            I take the money left next to me. “Never mind, that other guy is paying.”

            By the end of the night Matt leaves with a stranger of his own. She takes one look at my outfit and immediately my threat level drops in her eyes.

            _Like you’ll even be around long enough for it to matter, girlfriend._

            I’d intended to crash on Matt’s couch, but that’s out of the question. I hail them a cab and drive the BMW to the garage myself.

            No one’s around to berate me for arriving home at 3am, so a swish of Listerine and a shower is substantial in cleaning up my alibi. Piotr and a few others have stayed behind since the wedding to serve as replacements for the vacationing X-Men, and they seem to be out on duty tonight. There’s an ache in my chest when I think of them dealing with a certain anarchist group. It’s extraordinarily late for a bout of Danger, but my club high is wearing off quickly.

            Worn out and ticked off, I break my own record, again, and Danger seems almost congratulatory as she powers down. Skipping a second shower, I collapse into bed before the sun comes up.

           

            With freshmen arriving soon, I’ve been encouraged to pack up and move into one of the staff dorms. Piotr gladly lends a hand.

            “So, what do you think, you going to college nixt year?” The lengthy stay in Russia reclaimed his vernacular. He carries my stereo on his shoulder and a box of other items under his arm.

            “Um, I don’t know yet.” I drop my bag in front of my new dresser in my new bedroom. “I don’t think I want more school.”

            “You’ll figure it out.” He sets everything down carefully. “It might take time, but you’ll know what to do.”

            Logan arrives the day of, conspicuously parking in front of the house and storming into his room for a change of clothes and a shave.

            About a week or so into the semester I’m killing time in the lounge after finishing the lunch shift- I volunteer in the kitchens to keep busy. A sophomore named Lacey is trying to command all the attention in the room by controlling the TV remote with her toes.

            “People have to touch that with their hands, Lacey,” I reprove.

            “Are you saying my feet are _dirty?”_ she challenges.

            “I’m saying I don’t want to touch something you’ve been rubbing your toes on.”

            “Then don’t touch it,” she laughs.

            I short out the electric signal so the remote no longer controls the television which has been shifting madly between channels during Lacey’s reign. It now settles calmly on a national news program. After watching her idly fiddle her dexterous digits a little longer, the rest of the room gets bored. An adventurous student gets up and manually changes the channel.

            “Wait, go back,” I shout.

            Startled, everyone looks at me strangely, but the student obliges.

            _“…months, industrialist Tony Stark has been found. He is reportedly alive and well, and upon arrival at Los Angeles Air Force Base immediately called for a press conference.”_

            They switch to a view of a man looking drastically unlike the photos shown of Stark when he first went missing. This strange man is seated in front of a podium with his arm in a sling, a neat jacket thrown over it, and a world-weary expression.

            _“I saw young Americans killed by the very weapons I created to defend them and protect them. And I saw that I had become part of a system that is comfortable with zero accountability.”_

            This cuts to a scene of him standing to take the podium. It’s clear he isn’t reading from any cards. _“I had my eyes opened. I came to realize I had more to offer this world than just making things that blow up. And that is why, effective immediately, I am shutting down the weapons manufacturing-”_

            The press rise to their feet in an urgent clamor.

            _“-division of Stark Intl.”_

            His handler appears to stop him from continuing, and I can hardly hear anything else before they return to the reporter.

 

            It’s hard enough no longer being a student for the first time in your life. Continuing to live at your boarding school and without any of your friends is a cruel bonus. By September I’m still working in the kitchens. Tonight though there’s very little for me to do, so I’m sitting outside to cool off.

            A good deal of moonlight spills over the lawn on this side of the house, and I see a rabbit placidly chewing at a shrub. We both notice the sound of someone approaching at the same time, and after pausing a moment to confirm, the rabbit bounds off.

            With a long exhale of smoke, Logan sits down beside me on the retaining wall. 

            “How’re you doin’?”

            I crack my knuckles. “I’m alright.”

            “And Sonus?”

            “He’s alright.” He’s stressing me out. “How was Canada?”

            Logan huffs. “Scott says you’re doing well in Danger.”

            “Did he say it in those exact words?”

            “You know, I learned a long time ago that you’ll never talk to me when you’re hurting. I consider it a privilege you talk to me at all.”

            “I’ve talked to you plenty in past.”

            “Yeah, and then you stopped. You took off with your buddies and I haven’t seen you since.”

            “You told me to get friends of my own and I did.”

            “Still wanted you to talk to me though.”

            Uncomfortably I straighten out my jacket, tucking my hands deeper in my pockets.

            He sighs. “Is it Vincent?”

            “It’s a lot of things.”

            “Then let’s talk about one of ‘um, alright? Tell me about Vinny.”

            What about him? What is there I can tell you other that what you already knew? “I wish there was some way I could’ve gotten him to stay.” I swallow and try to coax the words out myself. “He…he told me he loved me, and…I wonder if I’d told him I loved him back…”

            Logan shuffles his feet. “Do you love him back?”

            “I just…I’m just wondering if- I don’t know.” I hunch up my shoulders to hide my burning cheeks.

            He sighs and taps ash into the gravel. “Don’t dwell on the ‘what-ifs’, darlin’. In this case I don’t think there is much you could’ve done by that point.”

            So then there are things I could’ve done before that point. “You shouldn’t love someone after they do something like that to you…but I miss him.”

            It’s sharp out and the sky is clear.  Despite the frustration involved in getting me to talk, I’m very grateful for Logan’s ability to listen. I want him to know I appreciate him for all the times he’s backed me up, and not think I take him for granted, but I’m unsure how to express that without feeling awkward. I’ll just hug him right now.

            He’s working on the last inch of cigar, giving the moon a scrutinizing look like he’s just noticed a new detail on her surface, her glow polishing the shoulders of his leather jacket. Spineless, I stare at the toes of my shoes.

            “She’s waxing,” Logan says. “She’ll be full and bright in a few days.”

            I look up. “She seems just as bright when she’s half full as she is when she’s full.”

            He shakes his head. “It’s just a preview. She’ll get there.”


	21. Chapter 21

            The computer screen is glaring in the dark lab. Detailed maps of southern California populate the open tabs, among them blogs, news articles, and fan forums discussing the various activities of a certain international celebrity. Add to that the list of nightclubs he frequents, always leaving apparently with a new piece of arm candy and never being seen with her again. Then there are the YouTube videos where he’s charming some interviewer or signing autographs with a flourish, contrasted with startling videos of him that I’d rather not think about let alone click on. I’m sorry to say it, but I think I’m seeing Matt’s future.

            When it isn’t promoting bank failures and the evils of Wall Street, the news the last several weeks covered nothing but Tony Stark. In the few months he spent recovering at home after his ordeal, the recent weapons dealer appears to have machined a fully functioning, high-tech robotic suit. If his character wasn’t obvious to me before, the candy-coated red and gold armor-plating was a clear indicator. The man’s made a sports car he can wear.

            I plan on nightly trips. Anywhere between seven pm and three am Pacific Standard Time will be during sleeping hours at the school. Every evening Logan heads to the local bar to avoid the stench of marital bliss, so no one will notice I’m gone.

With the pocket money I’ve saved up I purchased a cocktail dress, and after practicing alterations to my face through illusion I’ve managed to assemble a worldly image for myself. I won’t know how best to blend in until I get there though.

            Two weeks are spent in Los Angeles jumping from club to club, careful to limit myself. Coast-to-coast teleportation may be a breeze, but too many jumps in a small window of time make me weak-kneed. Here I’m usually invisible, getting into every club by walking through the door whether it’s open or not. Noise, drinks, dark booths, bright bars, lifted dance floors, multi-storied, and some are no more than sleek restaurants with live bands. But not one of them has Tony Stark on the list.

Too often I think I’ve seen him, and once I was on an upper deck when the guests all pointed to the sky as what must’ve been Iron Man flew by. It’s nearer January than November now and I’m ready to give up. Besides, this city is killing me on the inside. People here are keen and cutthroat, desperately trying to attract fame and fortune. New York City may be hectic, but LA is a brothel.

            I’m standing outside one of the biggest clubs I could find, known more for its bar than its DJ. Raucous patrons filter in and out, entering sober and exiting on their knees. With no intention of going in, I remain visible tonight. No one even notices me.          

            The music blasts out the twin doors like a gust of wind, its electronic jerk causing me to twitch. The line of hopefuls at the door begins to shout and squeal. This happens far too often, insane fanaticism every time someone with a well-known face leaves the heat of the club to enter the smog of LA. Still, I lean forward, more bored than annoyed. An up-and-coming starlet stalks out with her young screenwriter boyfriend close at her heels feeding off her fame.  I lean back, thinking that if she’s any example of the level of clientele that frequents this establishment Stark might be somewhere less amateur. Another bout of squealing and begging has my eyes rolling as I begin to consider other locations. The shrieking escalates as the celebrity lingers, and I withhold the temptation to yell obscenities in reply, when I finally distinguish what they’re screaming and scramble forward.

            His crow’s feet wrinkle as he jokes with the harried valet, then blows a kiss to the clamoring crowd by the door. As his car pulls up to the curb, another arrives. Short-staffed apparently, the valet apologizes and tosses the patron his keys. Unperturbed, Tony Stark swaggers around to the driver’s side. No one steps out of the club to join him.

            “Hey, you in the blue,” he shouts.

            The valets don’t wear blue, so I look to see who he might be calling. There’s more than a score of young women scrambling over each other to be the Kleenex he throws away tomorrow morning. I don’t see any wearing blue though.

            _I’m_ wearing blue. Immediately I pretend I’m one of Matt’s girls and point at myself innocently.

            Strikingly, Stark’s eyes stay on mine. “You tryin’ to get in, gorgeous?”

            I shake my head more than I need to. “This place sucks. Waitin’ for a ride.”

            He smiles widely, fiddling with the one key on the ring. “I can drive you.”

            With a crooked smile to match his- only a little more naïve- I step off the curb. “I don’t know.”

            “Go ahead.” He pats the shimmering silver Audi. “Car of dreams. I left the _conservative_ ones at home. C’mon.”

            All I can think is Vince would’ve loved this car. I run a hand over the streamlined hood and look at him to make sure he’s serious. There’s an eager mischief in his eyes, like a dangerous puppy. A slight breeze flits over the roof of the car, barraging my senses with violently rich martinis and sharp cologne. Stark tilts ever-so-slightly to one side, and his close-clipped mustache is damp.

            I lift a bare shoulder. “Can I drive?”

            “Yup.” The answer is instantaneous. He jogs around the front of the car. “Think fast.”

            I catch the key ring and he gives a low whistle. Once in the driver’s seat I quickly take in the ridiculously advanced controls. For this reason I make sure not to make eye contact with him as I easily get her started and pulled onto the road like I drive one of these every day.

            Stark blows air through his lips. “And you didn’t crash into anything. Disappointing really.”

            “We’ve still got time.” I reply. “Anything in particular you’d like me to aim for?”

            “The bridge if you please, just take me straight off the edge.”

            I laugh and he smiles. Static. “Well, if I find an overpass you might just get lucky.”

            He chuckles good-naturedly, removing a pair of sunglasses from inside his jacket, then cocks his head to the side. “Is this a bait-&-switch? Be honest, you thought I was Joe Jonas.”

            “Why, do you only pick up lonely, vapid girls?”

            “Just the cute ones,” and when that doesn’t work, “but every now and then I manage to find a snarky one. Though I don’t do a lot of ‘picking up’, they tend to just…come.”

            “Mm, I think it’s the car.”

            “You know, I’ve had that _same_ theory.” He flicks his index finger back and forth between us. “Great minds.” 

            “Believe me we are _not_ thinking alike.” Any minute now I’m getting kicked out. “So, where am I going exactly?”

            He sweeps his hand over the glittering valley. “Anywhere on God’s good earth, milady.”

            “Anywhere, huh?” Alright, he’s not ticked off yet. Now, how do I put this, “How about we just take you home?”

            “Whoa, already? My curfew’s not till tomorrow night.” He lowers his sunglasses and looks over them at me. “Just curious, when you said that place sucked, did you mean that place sucked, or you’re just the boring type?”

            “Dude, you wear sunglasses at night, you haven’t any place to be asking me about my party habits.”

            He chortles rigorously at that one. “First of all, while I did not need his permission, Corey Hart said I could; and second, you did not just insult the Ray Bans.”

            “You did not just say Ray- Get out of my car.”

            “Yup, I knew this was coming. Is this a carjacking, it’s a carjacking isn’t it, I’ve been warned about these things.” He flips his shades off. “Put ‘em on.”

            “Wha- I’m- driving, in the middle of the night.”

            “Party-pooper. That’s you.” At that moment I pull up to a stoplight and he quickly places the sunglasses on my nose. Giggling horrendously, he sinks into his seat.

            “Pleased now?” I feel like I’m driving Matt.

            “Now sing ‘Party In The U.S.A.’ I’m kidding, I’m kidding, don’t actually do it or I will jump out and roll along the freeway.” Static. “You did just come for the car,” he accuses, a crooked smirk on his face.

            “What- no! How often does one get to drive the Iron Man home when he’s drunk as a skunk?”

            “Not often, it almost never happens.” He shakes his head resolutely. “I’m as sober as- as a…what the hell rhymes with sober?” 

            More static, loud, harsh, perhaps from a neighboring car. It isn’t a telepath though, not the intrusive, nearly painful feeling I get when Jean or Xavier has an episode. This is a strong, consistent muttering, an average psyche at an unusually loud volume. We reach another stoplight.

            _And you thought it would be that simple- When, when has it been simple, Tony? Smart move._

It turns green, yet I hesitate at the pedal. Did he just think that, or was it said aloud? I look at him and he smiles at the green light. “Go, go, go!”

            I smile, gun it, and he chuckles, half amused. “You’re tempting fate, sweetheart.” _Three liters? Won’t cut it. Gotta change the solution. Have Jarvis run a few more tests, maybe it’s just the- No, it’s not just that- But it can be…right? Look at me, I’m even questioning my own math._  “No seriously, c’mon, the night’s still young. I can get you into _any_ party, it’ll be a scream, whatta’you say?”

The GPS has the directions for home all mapped out. I don’t touch it.

            “Let’s just get out of here, huh, you and me, go see the world, get away from users, huh, how ‘bout it?” _How do I tell Pepper?_

            A red Mercedes cuts me off then zooms onto an exit ramp. “Yeah, I don’t think that would work out well.”

            “Why not?” _Of course you couldn’t keep a straight face during the funeral. How many people do you think will flip off the hearse when you die in five months?_

            “You’re drunk.”

            “So?” _Not even this kid thinks you’ve got it in you._

            “And I’m seventeen, and…Let’s just get you home.”

 

            I’d like to say the remainder of the trip was spent in silence. Audibly neither of us said a word. Shadows of self-doubt, fatigue, guilt, and some truly alarming feelings of inevitability poisoned the atmosphere. The person I thought I was going to meet, the person shown on TV and in magazines, was nothing, nothing, like the real man. Internally, it was evident he was more like the exhausted speaker at the press conference than the virulent Iron Man.

            “Tell me, just- just tell me, where I slipped,” mutters the conflicted alcoholic in the seat next to me.   

            Is this honesty? “You didn’t slip. I didn’t even know you were acting.”

            “Until when?”

            “Look, I don’t- I’m sorry.”

            “Why?”

            “Because you asked me to drive you off a bridge.”

            He falls quiet. I have a headache. Maybe the fact that he’s practically soaked in alcohol amped his brain activity a few decibels.

            “You’re so loud and…vivacious when other people can see you.” I should really stop talking now. “But it’s like you’re…dying, otherwise.”

            That hits a nerve. He looks at me, doesn’t say anything, just looks at me.         

            The driveway winds uphill gradually until I can see the outline of a white, modernistic mansion. A tasteful statue rules the roundabout, and I pull up to the front steps.

            “Thanks for the ride,” Stark says flatly, letting himself out.

            I get out of the car and over to the passenger door before he collapses. He murmurs something incoherent under his breath, but doesn’t object to me supporting him. I kick off my heels and help him up the steps. On the last one he shakes me off.

            “I got this.”

            He walks to the front door, which opens for him, and staggers in. I’d like to take this chance to escape, but I can’t leave him like that. I’ve just stepped over the threshold when a tall, thin woman appears from around the corner with a cell phone and an expression of mixed relief.

            “Where _were_ you? Rhodey and I have been calling for-” She notices me standing there and I know exactly what’s going through her mind.

            “I just drove him-”

            “How old are you?”

            “I just drove him home. I didn’t want him driving himself, so I drove him home.”

            “She’s fine, Potts,” Stark mumbles, remarkably holding himself up.

            “Who are you?” the woman asks.

            “Nobody. I just gave him a ride.”

            “From where?”

            Stark gives me the ‘kill’ signal and I shut my mouth. She looks at him, rolls her eyes and looks back at me. _“Where was he?”_

            “At La Vida, the club.”

            “Potts, what’re you still doing here?” Stark furrows his brow and fiddles with his shirt.

            “Waiting for- I’m sorry,” she turns back to me, “could you wait here?”

            I nod and she herds him away. As soon as they’re out of sight, I turn and run out the door. At the bottom of the stairs I bend down for my shoes and his sunglasses fall off my face. _Aw, crap._

            Intruding further, I hurriedly locate a decorative end table, return the glasses, and again head for the door. There’s some arguing going on upstairs, and while I would love to get out of here, instinct tells me not to get on her bad side. There are a few paper napkins on the coffee table. I grab one of these and a pen left by a phone, and start writing a quick note to Tony. I sign it “Amy”, add my phone number, rethink it, then tuck it under the sunglasses anyway.

            When she comes out she’s going to want to call me a cab or drive me home herself. There will be a story, a good reason for an underage girl to be leaving Tony Stark’s house at such a late hour. I could lie. I could convince her I’m actually twenty-one even though I told Stark I’m seventeen. But if I just leave now she’ll wonder where I went, wonder if I’m still in the house or on the property, wonder what stories I’ll tell when I see my folks, my friends, the media. Crap, this is a mess I’ve gotten myself into.

            The woman steps back into the room and finds me waiting obediently by the door.

            “I called a cab,” I say, “told it to meet me at the end of the road.”

            She nods, too tired or too distracted to worry about me. “I’ll drive you there.”  

            She doesn’t ask my name, but asks instead where I’m staying. I give the name of a gated community, upper middle-class, non-threatening, where I’m staying with friends while I visit from the northern part of the state. I can’t tell if she’s hearing any of it, but she asks if I’m enjoying the trip, which part of the north, and other trivial questions.

            When we get to the end of the road there is of course no cab waiting for me. I insist it’s coming even though she offers to drive me all the way home, and she reluctantly permits it. I can’t tell if her offer is out of natural concern or a tactic of avoiding further cause for scandal. It may be a little of both. 

            Back in Westchester, I rub the illusory makeup off my face feeling ashamed and humiliated. Iron Man doesn’t exist, but I made a fool of myself looking for him and caused heaps of stress for us both. Never meet your heroes. You’ll just be disappointed when you discover they’re only human.

           

            Matt’s dad seems to have changed his mind about supporting his son by effectively evicting him from the New York apartment with plans to sell it. Thankfully a friend was looking for a roommate and Matt was able to move into the campus dorms with him, but I have yet to hear the end of it.

            “And now he wants the five hundred for the couch,” he complains over the phone. “I bought that couch, and I sold it, _I_ should get the money. But no because I bought it with ‘his’ money, it was ‘his’ couch.”

            I lean back against the retaining wall where I get the best reception. “Hey, since I’m pretty sure your dad pays for our phones too- which I would never have agreed to had I known- how much longer do you think this will last?”

            I imagine him shrugging at this point. “Just message me on Facebook.”

            “Oh good, so they can hear all my conversations too.”  

            “You are so paranoid.”

            The phone beeps strangely. “I think, I have a call waiting.”

            “You _think?_ Who calls you besides me?”

            It beeps again. “On the off chance it’s an offer for a million dollars I’m picking it up. Bye.” The number is restricted, but I pick up anyway. “Hello?”

            “Might I be speaking with Amy?” asks a male voice.

            “No, you have the wrong- Wait. Who is this?”

            “It’s Tony, we met the other night. Now before you scream-”

            My heart rate does leap. “This is Amy.”

            “Is that your real name, Amy?” Stark inquires with mock authority.

            “It’s a real name that people call me.”  You just did anyway.

            “Well, whatever, Amy If-That’s-Your-Real-Name. You’re how old again, twelve?”

            “We’ll go with seventeen.” There’s a whooshing noise on the other end. “Are you driving?”

            “Yes, I’m sober.”

            “Relatively speaking.”

            He chuckles. “So, why’d you write me such a heartfelt epic on a napkin?”

            “That doesn’t happen often?”

            “Surprisingly, yours was only the third this week. So?”

            “Why’d you call me?”

            “You know if you’re going to be evasive.”

            “I don’t know, I was- You wanted to get out of town, and for a minute that’s all I wanted too. Not especially with you or with anyone, I just…escape sounded like a good thing. Are you Tony or Mr. Stark?”

            “Tony, please, I am not your shop teacher.”

            “Tony. I watched your press conference, and- you know the one you gave when you got back-”

            “Yes, do I know the one.”

            “Does it sound stupid to say it gave me hope?”

            “No. That was actually kind of the point, in a way.”

            “I suppose I was just, well, surprised by you. So I drove you home and left you a note- and stupidly put my phone number on it. It was all against protocol, and it stressed out your…assistant? and I almost wish I’d let you drive your inebriated self home.”

            “If wishes were horses. You live in Arcadia right?”

            “No, a friend of a friend does.” I lie quickly. “I was just staying the weekend.”

            “A likely story.”

            “Hey, I’m not asking you prying questions about your life.”

            “Yes, but I lack tact you just gotta play along. It annoys me to hell when people beat around the bush. So what’s your real name?”

            “It’s Ace.”

            “Seriously? So, are you one of those celebrity kids that got cursed with a weird name cuz’ your parents were stoned when they filled out the birth certificate, or are you in a gang? It’s a gang isn’t it, _Ace_?”

            “Oh my god, that noise.” I stop laughing for a second. “You’re not- you’re not in a car at all are you? Are you- Can you call me from the suit?”

            “I can do anything with this suit.”

            “You _jerk_.”

            And now he laughs, the sound of it rattling over the phone as the whooshing noise around him continues on. 

           

            From there we talk about the suit. With my limited knowledge of technology I’m able to keep up for a brief period of time as we cover a variety of topics. I focus on fight techniques and how much the suit is capable of in hand-to-hand, its flexibility and reaction time. I have to enlighten him after a certain point by explaining I’ve studied martial arts for the majority of my life, with a few embellishments about mechanical engineers in the family.

            Then he asks if I’m studying mechanical engineering in college. But of course, it’s all I care about in the world. Needless to say he barely believes me, but something about the blatancy of my lies tickles him.

            “You wouldn’t happen to be looking for an internship, would you?” he asks in a leading way.

            “Tony, you know I’m making this all up.”

            “See the trick to lying is not to tell people you’re lying.”

            “Even if they already know you’re lying?”       

            “Even if.” The whooshing noise has ended, so I assume he’s landed. “Stark Industries has an internship program, I could get you in.”

            “Tony, I’m really not-”

            “Mm, hang on I gotta put you on hold…Right,” he returns, his voice clearer now than it was before, “so you were blowing me off again?”

            “Look, I appreciate the gesture-”

            “There are two openings this spring, and seven this summer.”

            “I’m not-”

            “Or you can just intern for Pepper.”

            “-attending college right now. Wait, what?”

            “Entry level, you don’t even need to be a full-time student- or any student at all, I make the rules. What’re you doing in New York? Visiting friends?”

            “You’re stalking me.”

            “‘Creative investigation’, and just what were you up to at that club?”

            “I might hang up.”

            “Have at it.”

            “I can’t intern for you, Tony, you- I can’t.”                            

            “Right.” There’s some intense typing on the other end, so I know he’s in front of a computer. “Why do you think you can’t?”

            We’re in too far here, so this is a secondary solution to hanging up. “Because I’m a mutant.”

            There’s a pause on the other end. “Are you going to answer my question or what?”

            “I said I’m a mu-”

            “I heard what you said, but I don’t see how it answers my question.”

            “You don’t want me around. I’m a…security risk, or something.”

            “Are you…volatile?”

            “No, I’ve never been, I’m just…that doesn’t bother you?”

            “Not much does, and, let’s be honest, I already kinda suspected it. So, do you see dead people?”

            “I teleport.”

            “You’re kidding me. How far?”

            “Just from here to California, that’s the farthest I’ve gone in one jump.”

            “Could you- it just occurred to me you probably live at home with your parents, wow, that was one heckuva sneak out.”

            “I live at a boarding school.”

            “Even better. Tell you what, you visit, no hang on…tomorrow. Come by tomorrow, Pepper’ll be here, she can walk you through the essentials, and we’ll get those papers signed.”

            “I’m not signing anything.”

            “Then just come see the suit,” he practically begs. “It’ll be phenomenally educational, and I’ll write you a recommendation letter to anywhere.”

            “Why are you doing this for me? This is like offering to take me anywhere. What are you trying to do?”

            “I’m doing better than you, that’s what you said in your napkin letter, and that’s unacceptable. Whatever ‘rough spot’ means, it’s not fair that you compare it to mine, I don’t even want to think about it. Besides you did good by me, so let me return the favor.”

            I hesitate. “That’s not like you.”

            “Yeah, well, I’m…I’m doing the best I can, kid.” He sounds uncomfortably apologetic. I take a deep breath. “What time tomorrow?”

            He draws out the ‘S’ on the word, “Say, four thirty Pacific Standard. It’ll be eight thirty on your side.”

            “That’s fine. Pepper’ll be there? What’s her last name?”

            “Potts.”

            “Okay. I can make it. Tell her what I told you, she already doesn’t like me. But no internship, I just want to see the suit.”    

            “Perfect. I’ll see you then.”       

            All day I keep taking out my phone and checking the received calls to make sure I didn’t imagine the whole thing. By nightfall I’m equal parts excited and skeptical. I don’t know what to expect, I don’t even know what I agreed to or what possessed me to agree. I suppose pity, but he’s Tony Stark I’d never expect to hold any kind of pity for him, not in this regard.

            And what will Ms. Potts think of the whole affair, how can it even be explained? I find it unlikely that many people bother with the odd goings on of exclusive wealthy communities, but still, I feel like I’m setting myself up for a tidal wave of unwanted attention. No, no better to not go, no. Well, at least tell someone- no, no I can’t tell anyone, they’ll get mad at me. I shouldn’t have been in California in the first place let alone fraternizing with a Casanova twice my apparent age.

            Oh boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the Iron Man works by amonitrate on this site. They're practically source material.


	22. Chapter 22

            Vince’s things were just put into storage.

            When Scott turned my way I had my back to him. The sound of the closet door shutting got me moving. I didn’t know where to go, I didn’t want to go back to my room, or to the lounge, or anywhere in the house. In that moment I dreaded every piece of furniture, every corner, every painting on the wall. I walked until I was deep in the woods, far past the point where Vince had talked to John, past the place where I’d wandered in my sleep, and just kept walking.

            I’m sitting in the snow, the sunlight waning. There’s nothing you could’ve done to stop him, they say. That’s impossible. There’s always something I can do, but opportunity just slips through my fingers. Why? Am I scared? Do I still always assume someone more capable than me will take care of it? Or do I sit here and tell myself it was coming and I deserved it? 

            The sun has set and my jeans are probably soaked through, but I can’t feel my butt so it hardly matters. My arms and face feel like ice, but I’m burning up inside. I check the time on my phone. It’s just barely six o’clock.

* * *

 

Wind whips around the flowing curves of the cliff side mansion.  Rain and ocean spray combine as they noiselessly brush across the acres of glass facing the dimming light of the horizon.

“Sir, there appears to be a young woman at the front door. She did not enter through the gate, so I would assume this is your teleporter?”

            Tony ponders for a second trying to remember what the heck JARVIS is referring to.

            _“Tony.”_

            He scrambles to his feet and jogs upstairs. Pepper stands on the landing with a forbidding expression. “She’s _here_?”

            “Yeah.” Tony plays it cool.

            “And you were going to tell me about this _when_?”

            “Um, right now. I’m probably gonna need you around for this, so.”

            “I have a call with the vice chairman of-”                  

            “No you don’t, that’s been cancelled.”

            “Cancelled? Tony, you’re _cancelling_ my calls now?”

            “Well, you’re my assistant, and right now I need you to assist me.”

            “What, you mean supervise? I’m still _supervising_ the plans for the New Year’s party that you didn’t tell me about until a week ago after you _cancelled_ Prague.” Pepper gives a strained smile as she catches the girl’s eye through the glass door. “Why is she here?”

            “Look, Peps, she did me a favor and I’m paying it back, I thought you’d like that.”  

            “This is not-” With deepening alarm, Pepper notices how young the girl is. “Tony-”

            The door opens and the girl walks in with a cautious smile.

            “Pepper this is…Ace.”

            The girl gives him a dry look. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Potts.”

            Respectful so far. “It’s nice to meet you too, Ace.” Pepper shakes her hand and finds it’s freezing cold. “Come sit by the fireplace. I take it you made it home fine the other night?”

            “Course she did,” Tony answers, “she’s a teleporter.”

            The girl looks startled at Tony, then almost frightened at Pepper.

            “Actually, I have no proof that she does teleport. There was some babble about being a mutant,” Tony makes air quotes around ‘mutant’, “but it was highly unconvincing. She came here for the assistant internship.” 

            “No, I didn’t,” Ace answers quickly. “I said no to that, was very clear.”

            “She agreed to it if I showed her the suit.”

            “Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait,” Pepper puts her hands out, “what assistant internship?”

            JARVIS ignited the fireplace the moment it was mentioned, and now Ace sits down by it, carefully as though she’s afraid she might damage the concrete hearth.

            “The internship, Pepper, you should know about this it was in-”

            “No, I did not clear that-”       

            “-and I cannot be responsible for-”

            “-along strict guidelines. And no, you cannot be responsible, Tony, that’s been duly noted, now what exactly did she come all the way out in this weather for?”

            Ace sneezes.

            “Bless you,” Pepper responds. Turning to Tony she asks between her teeth, “Is there a parent-guardian permission slip for this little endeavor?”

            Tony stares at her wide-eyed. “She’s eighteen.”

            He was half-expecting the blue dress again. Old blue jeans worn at the knees, her green polo clearly cut for a boy, Northface sneakers. Her hoodie has been washed too many times, the fleece lining matted and pilled, and there isn’t a trace of makeup on her. This could be a whole different person.

            Tony struts through the workshop, Ace and Pepper in tow. “I’m actually working on a suit right now. New concept, a few improvements on the old design. When I’m in here Pepper usually brings me paperwork and nags a good deal.”

            “Gets you to appointments on time, makes you fulfill obligations, which by the way-”

            “Nope, nope not today, c’mon we, today remember, remember I said-”                    

            “That you needed some ‘me’ time? Yeah, and do you remember what I said, about you having a bit too much _me_ time and needed a bit more _CEO_ time, Tony, okay? _I_ don’t have time to run your company…”

            He stopped listening after the first sentence, quickly distracted by his unfinished project laying about the room.

            “Ms. Potts, a call on the line from the vice chairman of Synex Corp.”

            “Dellis can’t take no for an answer,” mutters Tony discontentedly.

            “I’ll get it in the other room, JARVIS.” Pepper glances at Ace who smiles innocently, then pins Tony with her glare. “We’ll continue this conversation.”

            “Can’t wait, Potts.”

            Once she’s gone Ace stuffs her hands in her pockets. “So, this suit you were going to show me.”

            He looks up and furrows his brows thoughtfully. “It’s not finished. Like I said, I’m doing some recalibrating. You know what, make yourself useful. Sit there and…hold this.”

            He hands a video camera to Ace and begins rearranging the holographic schematics on a nearby deck. Ace sighs and pulls over a swivel chair. “Why do you want me to intern for Pepper?”

            He keeps his pokerface. “Good experience. College counselors, employers, they see Pepper Potts on your résumé they know you’re equipped to handle any kind of malfunction.”

            “You’re the malfunction.” She smiles by sucking in her lips.

            “See, I was wondering where you went. That’s the first semi-wise-ass comment I’ve heard from you all day. Don’t be so nervous, JARVIS doesn’t bite.”

            “Funny, sir,” replies the AI.

            Whenever JARVIS speaks, Ace looks up at the ceiling as inconspicuously as she can.

            “Hey,” Tony waves to get her attention, “don’t be so stiff-necked either, you’re freakin’ me out.”

            The display reconfigures and he steps back to observe the edited design.

            “Why does the green circuit connect there?” she asks, pointing to the unfinished leg piece hovering on the deck.

            “It transmits data to the CPU.”

            “So it’s a nerve.”

            “It- yes. There’s a circuit board the size of your pinkie nail,” he indicates the shin, “that works like an intersection. All these other circuits, they connect up there too sending different messages.”

            She nods. “All the information comes off the highway-”

            “-and into the intersection. Yep.”

            “What happens if the circuit board gets damaged while you’re in the suit?” she asks. “Does the leg seize up?”

            “There’s a ‘detour’,” he runs his finger along the back of the leg, leaving a neon trail of trembling pixels, “that runs up the back. It’s for emergencies, isn’t as complex, can’t take as much info.”

            “And if that blows?”

            “If the leg isn’t completely busted, it should keep walking forever. It’s flexible, just, armor at that point.”

            She nods. “I take it the whole suit is like that; were you to lose power somehow it’d still be full body armor, insulated, bullet-proof. That’s excellent.”

            “Isn’t it?”

            She laughs and he feels the room start to relax.           

* * *

 

            Stark told me to come back after New Year’s, but this strange and sudden philanthropy may just as abruptly become boring to him. I slept past breakfast and am in the kitchen listening to music and scrounging up toast and jam, when Logan walks in with his coffee mug. I stop dancing when I notice him, and he pretends he didn’t see.

            “Where have you been?” he asks.

            I pluck out an earphone. “What do you mean?”

            He sniffs and I feel my skin prickle. “I mean, where’ve you been? You don’t smell like anywhere in the house.”

            He smells cologne, and lubricant, and metal, and Tony. Of course, he doesn’t know it is Tony, but I can tell when he furrows his brow that he’s distinguished the scent of a man. “In the garage, I was…sketching your bike.” Piotr got me a sketchbook and pencils as an early Christmas present, and I didn’t want to be rude so I’ve been using them. Saying I was in the garage won’t explain Tony’s scent, but maybe Logan will give me the benefit of a doubt.

            He sniffs again, reaches into a cupboard for a box of crackers, and taps me on the head with it before leaving.

 

            I kick the door. “Larry, open up!”

            “He’s prolly got his headfuns on.” Matt leans his head on my shoulder, the pom-pom from his Santa Claus cap lolling over my collarbone. “I love you.”

            I kick the door harder then finally phase my hand through and unlock it myself. “Why are all your roommates perfectly useless?”

            Larry looks up from the computer as we come in. “You freaked me out, how’d you get in here?”

            “Magic!” Matt spits angrily, clumsily kicking off his shoes.

            “You forgot your key, retard.” Larry dangles it in the air. “Hey, Matt’s girlfriend.” He always calls me that. Matt sits down on the edge of the bed and tries to unbutton his shirt.

            “Here.” I step over his shoes and start to unbutton it for him. “You can’t even take your own clothes off, how’re you supposed to do it to a girl?”

            “Crass.” Matt pushes me away and undoes the last button himself then gives me a look like “See? I’m capable.”

            I gesture at his arm. “Lift. You remember back in the spring when you promised you wouldn’t get drunk again? Other one.”

            Matt sits in his undershirt looking up at me with one eye. “Don’t be mad at me.”

            I put my hand on the top of his head and roll it back and forth, making him nod. He smiles stupidly, brushes me off and lies down to sleep. “Night, nanny.”

            “You’re useless, Larry,” I say loudly.

             “Was Kelly there tonight?” He still can’t hear me.

            When I leave the dorms I take an unfrequented path that travels past a small wooded part of the grounds. There’s rarely anyone on it and it has enough cover in darkness for me to jump home without being seen. One less thing to worry about.

 

            Dum-E putters about the shop, giving me a happy chirp as he passes by.

            “Stop flirting, she doesn’t like you that way.” Tony takes a quick drink from the glass next to his keyboard. “So the visual learning a secondary mutation?”

            Look at him, trying to impress me. “Primary.”

            “I’m sorry?” His eyebrows have shot up to signify that he’s discovered something devilishly interesting.

            “Yes, Tony, teleportation is not my primary mutation. I learn things fast.”

            “Huh. So you’re a genius too. I knew I liked you.”

            I cut myself on the bare copper wire I was instructed to strip. “No one’s saying I’m a genius.”

             “Technically, I was giving _myself_ a pat on the back, so no need to blush. You done with that wire yet?”

            I fling the plastic coating into the waste basket next to him. He doesn’t even look up. “If you’re trying to assassinate me you’re failing miserably.”

            “I won’t assassinate you until I’m in the will.”  

            He sniggers. “Oh, so that’s it.”

            “Yes, you know, ‘cause you’re, ancient. Any day now, really.”

            “That’s offensive.”

I lean forward slightly in my seat. There’s a pair of pink panties under his desk. “Tony.”

            “What now?”

            “Sweep your foot to the left.”

            He hesitates, wondering if it’s a joke, then wordlessly does so. The garment disappears under a trolley.

           

            When they aren’t eclipsed by the spectacular do-gooding of Tony Stark, Wall Street and all its con artists have been the stars of the news cycle. Tales of yachts, private jets, billion dollar bonuses, and high-end call girls have been poking through every claim that these men know what to do with other peoples’ money. Robert Larson, Matt’s dad and an investment banker, has managed to stay clear of this business, openly condemning his decadent colleagues. To further exhibit his thriftiness in contrast to his peers, Matt’s dad finally dropped our phone plans.

            Having expected this, I open a bank account under an alias, supply fake identification and an armoire of other deceits, furnish it with invisible funds generously drawn from the surpluses of certain robber barons- also acquired through deceit- and my phone plan is set up again with a permanent hand in this account. Someone will find me out eventually, possibly even soon, but that’s the joy of being a fake entity. Besides, they’ll hardly miss the money.

            The easiest way I could be found out is when Matt realizes I’ve miraculously been texting him all this time as he pays for his own phone. That could be years from now, assuming we’re still friends by then. Sometimes I wonder why I still matter to him, but every now and then he’ll ask me how things are at the school, or visit for a day and chat up Scott and his other old teachers, and it’s like he never left. When he visits he’s more himself than when he’s in public. Of the colorful acquaintances I’ve met at his college parties, none were mutant. Around them I can’t smile in a way that shows my teeth, Matt has to refrain from his signature musical outbursts, and when Vince would come with us he kept mistaking people’s thoughts for things they’d actually said. Maybe that’s exactly what Matt needed us for.

Xavier is sending every hand he can get as relief for Haiti including several former students home for winter break. I and my few remaining Danger classmates also volunteered to help, but as of yet we still aren’t X-Men, and the jet can only hold so many. Instead, I’m tasked with supervising the sixth graders as they assemble their own pizzas. I know how to use the ovens and keep my hair out of the shredded cheese, so I was a liable candidate. When the abominations of nature are only cooled crusts, and the kids are corralled in the lounge watching a movie, I wipe off my hands and trade my apron for a sweater.

            I jump straight to Tony’s front gate to inform JARVIS of my arrival. He may be binary, but it’s palpable that I disturb him by arriving unannounced in his living room.

            “Ah, yes. Ace. Tony tried to reach you earlier this afternoon, but the number was apparently disconnected. He’s in the shop.”

            Tony has his back to me as he moves a very large sheet of metal under the lathe. “You’re late.”

            “Phone issues. What are you making with that?”         

            “Stuff.”

            “Glad I asked.”

            We spend the whole hour machining and rewiring brand new parts. The changes we made to the suit last time I was here have been changed yet again by their obsessive creator.

            “How do I-?”

            He sighs impatiently. “Connect the blue wire with the other blue wire.”

            “They’re all blue. Do I connect with the one leading to the circuit board?”

            “No, no they- Oh. Yeah.” He lifts his visor. “Yeah just stick it there.” He watches for a second then goes back to his soldering iron. I copy the way other wires are connected, but he’ll probably redo it once I’m gone.

            Pepper steps into the room, paperwork under one arm and an espresso in hand. “Tony.”

            “She claims I’m short.” Tony points the iron at me.

            “You are short,” I say, holding back a smirk. I insulted him way earlier, but didn’t expect it to make such an impression.

            “Well, I’m glad you’re comparing heights, very productive,” Pepper gives him a stern look as she holds out the espresso and the papers, “but I need to borrow Tony for a meeting.”

            I get up to leave and Tony sets his tools aside. “Get out of here. Don’t forget your homework, what is it?”

            “Studying mechanoreceptors.”

            “Yup. Email me.”          

 

            Moved by guilt or some urge to make things worse, Logan told me about his conversation with Vince after it was discovered he’d been talking to Pyro. Now he sits at the gable window waiting for me to come in. “I did not-”           

            “You threatened him, there’s nothing else to call it.”

            “I was trying to protect you.” He can’t hold my gaze as I stare at him. “Ace, if he were here-”

            “You wouldn’t apologize to him if he were here, you’re only doing it now because he ran away, and I don’t see any ‘hunting down’ going on so I suppose it was an empty threat.” It still got him to leave though didn’t it? I pull my feet further from the edge.

            Logan sighs and closes his eyes. “Ace, you need to get down from there.”

            “I’ve been coming up here forever.”

            “Yeah, and you’ve never actually been allowed, now come down so I can talk to you.”

            “Make me.”

            _“Get down here.”_

            I close my eyes and visualize the lawn below.

            “Hey,” he shouts from the window as I land loud enough for him to hear. I dust powdered snow off my hands and keep walking. I’m not going into the woods again.

            I’m in Tony’s living room not five minutes when I hear, “I know you’re there, Ace.”

            Instantly I freeze, wondering who can see me. JARVIS does the artificial version of patiently clearing his throat. Reappearing, I get up off the sofa. “I tried calling Tony, but the call wouldn’t connect. Is he offshore?”

            “I couldn’t say. He was not expecting you then?”

            “How long is he usually gone?” The X-Men have been gone for nearly two days before, but their trips don’t tend to lead into the Middle East.     

            “He should be back by the end of the day. Ms. Potts will be arriving around that time as well. Would you like me to call her and tell her you’re here?”

            “No. No thank you…Is there somewhere I’d better wait?”

            “Where you are is fine. I shall try to reach him and tell him you’re here.”

            I sit back down on the sofa. “Might I wait downstairs? I won’t touch anything.”

            “Mm, best wait here until he gets back. He has some equipment lying about that he should’ve put away before he left.”

            It’s getting closer to dinner time in New York. They know I’ve left, but I don’t really care where they think I’ve gone. After another tedious hour there’s a commotion outside. Traversing the room, I lean against the decorative boulder across from the landing.           Tony jogs up the stairs. “JARVIS, is Pepper here yet?”

            “She’s due to arrive back from the planning committee in a couple of hours.”

            “Call her and tell’er to just go home after- How did you get in here?”

            His tone catches me off guard. “JARVIS said it was okay.”

            “Actually, sir, I-”

            “He didn’t stop me,” I say. Tony just stares in disbelief. “Are you mad?”

            “Why sneak in? Why even come here at all?” He’s disturbed, but not mad.

            “I just didn’t want to be at home. I was only going to see if you were here, and then I didn’t want to go back. I thought I could leave before you got here, but you would’ve known I’d been here without an explanation.”

            Still he stands there, looking at me like I’m a conundrum of bizarre proportions. “Okay, but why did you come _here_?”

            Because it’s the farthest from home I can get, obviously. “I just did, okay?”

            He looks around with his mouth open. “Ace, where do you live? I mean where do you really live?”

            “In a boarding school in New York.”

            “No, no. You-” He wipes his hand over his chin. “I can’t help you, kid.”

            “I figured that out the night I met you.” I put on my coat. “I haven’t once asked for your help, and you haven’t asked what you can help me with.”

            “I did.”

            “You asked about college, I’m not going to college-”

            “That’s the only way I _can_ help. I offered you to intern under Pepper, I’m teaching you how to build an incredibly dangerous weaponized suit, what more do you want from me?”

            “Thank you! But today all I really needed was someplace to kill time that wasn’t a- a nightclub. I’m asking to just sit in your garage for a few hours and not bother anyone.”

            “Well, you didn’t ask, did you? That’s the flaw here.”

            I’m going to chew a hole right through my cheek. “Well I’m asking you now. I tried to call you. JARVIS tried to call you.” I grit my teeth. “Are you okay?”

            I indicate the ash on his shirt, and mildly he brushes it off. “Look…you did try. And you didn’t…teepee the place. Just, maybe leave a note on the front door next time you can’t contact me?”

            I nod cooperatively. “I’m sorry.”

            He raises his eyebrows as he looks around the house. “Yeah well, you’re not the strangest person to just show up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to hear about the X-Men in Haiti, please read "Léogâne" by JordannaMorgan, it's wonderful.


	23. Chapter 23

            “He’s an idiot, a- a dictator. You know I’m registered?” Matt’s practically shouting into the phone. “The asshole had me registered as soon as I was diagnosed like the very _instant._ I hate him.”

            I close my bedroom door behind me as I walk into the hall. “So this act.”

            “Is my inheritance, yeah, he’s giving me the finger. He hates me, he hates everything to do with me, I wish he’d just kill me, but I bet the scandal would cost too much.”

            “Just breathe for a second. They won’t pass this, they want mutants to register and this is just incentive not to.” Someone is coming in from the garden door just as I’m going out, so I wait before saying, “It’s going to be okay.”

            The “big project” his dad has been working on has finally come to head in the form of a pork barrel bill. If passed, it would essentially make it legal to tax people for being mutant, reasoning that damage caused to public property by mutants- i.e. the Liberty Island spectacle- should be paid for by mutants. The most unfortunate side to this bill is that if passed it is more likely the Mutant Registration Act will be reintroduced now with monetary incentive to support it. Otherwise, only the handful of mutants currently on the register would be affected by the bill- and most of them are in prison.

             “Mattie, I can come over tonight or we can go somewhere to get your mind off things. How does that sound?”

            There’s a long sigh. “I don’t have time tonight. I have to study for this stupid entrance exam. And before you say anything, yeah he still pays for my classes, so yeah I have to take it.”

            “I wouldn’t try to tick him off right now, no.” I clear my throat and look beyond the garden at the woods. “Do your best, and text me if you change your mind.”

            Vince would be livid right now, and dread crawls up my spine as I consider how the Brotherhood might react.

            In Malibu, Lenny Kravitz echoes up the garage stairs while CNN drones in the living room. There, Pepper sits intent over her work, speaking with a firm and slightly intimidating tone into her Bluetooth. We make eye contact, and I point down the stairs, eyebrow raised. She holds up a finger.

            “Mhm, then send him the details, he’ll be expecting them. Okay, buh-bye.” She sets everything down and stalks over to me. “Tony’s had me ringing economists all day.”

            “I hear Robert Larson dislikes him.”

            “Dislike would be tame.” She sighs tiredly, but gives me a friendly hug. “How are you?”

            The hug is so brief that I don’t have time to be surprised. “Fine. I don’t have a lot of faith that it’ll be passed. The bill.”

            “It doesn’t seem likely, no.” She heads back to the coffee table. “Oh, roust him out for me, he’s procrastinating again.”

            Hopping the last step to the garage, I swing open the door. “Pepper wants you upstairs.”

            Tools clatter and the music turns down. “Is that you, urchin?”

            “Yup. Pepper needs you to do a thing.”

            “And leave you to rob me blind, not a chance.” Tony pushes a trolley to the side and gets up from the floor, nuts and bolts rolling off his shirt and scattering everywhere.

            “There’s a guy in the driveway with a car, you going somewhere?”

            “When I’m good and ready,” he states forcefully. “You’re starting to nag too.”

            “Best not keep Pepper waiting- Whoa.” Suspended by chains is the top half of a suit in progress. Shining dull silver under the fluorescent lamp, it looks like some kind of morbid android suicide.

            “Yep. You did that part.” He points to a portion of exposed circuitry. “It’ll be cooler when I fit it into a briefcase later.”

            “Into a-”

            “Tony,” shouts Pepper from the landing, “we’re leaving _now.”_

            “Right,” he pulls out a swivel chair and pats the back, “plant your rear here and keep an eye on these numbers. When this bar reaches a hundred ‘n fifty you stop the clock. JARVIS will handle the rest, but just, you know, get a feel for the thing. Kay?”

            I spin the chair from side to side and turn the volume back up. “Can I browse your iTunes?”

            “Sure. And anything in the fridge,” he waves his arm at the small kitchen area in the corner, “if it isn’t alcohol.”

            I stop spinning. “So basically there’s nothing.”

            He jabs a finger at me. “Stop while you’re ahead. There’s probably tapénade upstairs- Hey, hey,” he snaps his fingers as the analog bar jumps. “Keep an eye on the screen.”

            “Geez, just give me a name tag like Dum-E and U already.”

            “Don’t think I haven’t thought about it,” he shouts as he jogs for the stairs.

            I wait until Pepper finally ushers him out the door before raiding the disappointing fridge. I sit back down and scroll through his music for anything better than Suicidal Tendencies. The bar ticks by slowly, only reaching twenty by the time the car has long since left the property. Bored, I get up to look over the suit. The portion of circuitry he pointed to as mine still has signs of my handiwork. I felt sure that he would redo it all to fit his own standards as soon as I left.

            I return to my post as the bar reaches twenty-one. “JARVIS, did he invent this to keep me stuck here until he gets back?”

            “Of course he did,” he replies promptly with irritation. “While it may still be considered educational, I think you’ve passed this particular exercise.”

            “So what do I do for two hours?”

            “I’ll set up the pay-per-view, _you_ order a pizza.”

            There’s a genuine kind of enjoyment to his voice as though spoiling me is something he was anticipating, and as I take the steps two at a time I consider inoffensive ways of asking how Tony got him so lifelike.

“Did you save some for me- yeaaah.” Tony lifts the lid of the pizza box and gags. “What’s with the Hawaiian?”

            “I got it for me, not you.” I flick a piece of chilly pineapple into the box. “You should probably microwave it.”

            “Neh, the one down here is out of service.”

            “You left my work on the suit.” I nod my head at it. “I figured it’d be a hazard to leave it there.”

            “If you were a hazard I wouldn’t have let you touch it in the first place. But if I do fall out of the sky, I’ll have someone other than myself to blame.” Taking a slice of pizza, he folds it into a taco, takes a large bite then chokes a little as he tries to talk around a mouthful of cold pizza. “Screw it, I’m heating this up upstairs.”

* * *

 

            “Hot, hot, dammit, _hot_.” The pizza slaps limply onto a paper plate as Tony nurses his stinging fingers.

            “Sir, there’s-”

            The front door crashes open. Tony drops the plate on the counter and rushes into the living room. A dark-haired man in a motorcycle jacket notices him with some disdain. “Where is she?”

            “Yeah, you should probably leave before I call the cops.” Tony considers the many ways he could get to his suit if physics weren’t involved. 

            The intruder ignores him, distracted by the music playing downstairs. Tony silently swears a long string of oaths while trying to come up with a way to lure him away from the landing. Inevitably, the man starts treading downstairs.

            “Hey!” Tony runs after him.

            Hearing the commotion above, Ace instinctively vanishes, but reappears when she sees who enters the room. “What are you doing here?”   

            “Get up, we’re going home.” Logan skirts equipment as he approaches. “Had to drag the whole damn jet down here, now get your ass out of that chair we’re going.” Neither of them notices Tony donning his suit.

            Ace clenches her jaw. “No.”

            “Excuse me?”

            “You can’t just burst in here and start telling me what to do.”

            “You weren’t in your room, what the hell was I supposed to do? Scott had to ring Sonus, wake him up, ask him where you were- What the fuckin’ hell are _you_ doing _here?_ ”

            “Hey, Clint Eastwood,” rings a dry metallic voice.

            “No, Tony, no, it’s fine.” Ace sounds panicked.

            _Snikt._

            Two thoughts go through Tony’s mind: _What the hell_ , and, _how?_

“Are you kidding me? Knock it off!” Ace quickly stands between the two of them. Both men take a step forward, each meaning to protect her from the other, but find themselves being pushed back by an unseen force. She looks from man to man brows furrowed. “I’ll come home when I’m ready to come home. I don’t need you to fetch me. Tony,” her voice lowers, “the suit was not necessary.”

            “Ace,” Logan begins in a low, threatening tone, “you-”

            “No. You don’t have to drag the ‘whole damn’ Blackbird all the way out here just to pick me up. I’m not nine, and I’m not made out of _china_.” She huffs angrily. “I didn’t see you rushing like this to find Vince.”

            Logan glowers, but retracts his claws. “You gonna let go of me now?”

            She lowers her arms. Tony staggers slightly. _Seriously, what the hell?_ His faceplate slides open. “Ace…I think you should go home now.”

            She looks at him as though she were expecting this. When he doesn’t take it back she looks at the floor by his feet. “Sorry…again.” Inclining her head toward Logan, she doesn’t look at him. “I’m going upstairs to get my sweater.”

            Once she can be heard stomping onto the landing, Logan asks in a disquieting tone, “What was she doing here?”

            Tony clears his throat. “Look, you’re just going to have to take my word for it and believe I’d never try to harm her in _any_ way. We’re just working on a technical project here in the shop.”

            Logan moves his head in what might be the beginning of a nod. “She’s studying?”

            “Yeah. Interning.” Then for good measure, “She’s a smart kid.”

            “So she’s been here before?” When Tony confirms it, Logan just raises an eyebrow and turns to leave. “Stay away from her.”

            “Hey,” Tony steps forward, “I already told you I wouldn’t touch her, and if you don’t believe that you’re actually insulting her. If she’s lying to you to be here it’s not because she has any special feelings for me, okay? She’s got _other_ reasons I’m sure.”

            “Yeah?” Logan asks dangerously. “And what would those be?”

            “A neglectful parent for starters,” Tony blurts, his face tense and his eyes wide. “Someone who doesn’t listen, or doesn’t have time to talk to her and find out where she goes.”

            “Why don’t you back off and let me handle this, eh?”

            “Right, you were doing such a brilliant job of breaking into people’s houses and swearing at their guests, I got confused.”

            The claws swing around and Tony blocks the hit with his arm, faceplate sliding back into place.

            “Knock it off,” Ace shouts, having jumped back into the room the second she heard the claws leave their casings. “I leave for ten seconds and you guys power up? Where’s the bird?”

            Incensed, Logan retracts the claws for the second time. “In the water, bottom of the cliff.”

            Tony raises his eyebrows beneath the faceplate, and turns so he can see Ace. “You’re going to tell me about that next time.”

            The relief he’d hoped to see is just barely evident. “Can we go now?”

* * *

 

            Logan knocks on my door more than once in the following days, and I ignore him every time. Even when the raps at the door are persistent and he’s getting angry, I quietly dare him to stab the knob and barge in. It would only nullify any apology.

            By February talk of Mutant Taxation hasn’t died down any. Matt lays low, gets his work done, and finally gets a real girlfriend, the kind that lasts longer than a week and starts planning for anniversaries and matching Halloween costumes. He’s twenty now and will probably marry someone like her, a moneyed society girl with a penchant for hosting cocktail parties. Right now the two of them are in New Hampshire skiing and posting pictures of themselves kissing in snow gear. I hope they break up soon.

            Finally, two weeks after the debacle in Malibu, my cell phone blips.

            _Get over here this thing’s not going to build itself._

            Tony and Pepper are both downstairs when I arrive. I enter braced for the stress of last time, wondering why he’d ever want me back. He’s bent over a small device- perhaps a future upgrade- with Pepper standing nearby reading off a list of reminders and occasionally responding to his mutterings by checking something off. Preoccupied, neither of them acknowledges me walking in.

            Tony’s device clicks. _“Pepper.”_

            It wouldn’t have hit her anyhow. She ducked and I involuntarily reacted as a capsule launched from the device and bulleted through the air. When it stops, suspended, they both look at me.             

            “Well, where do you want me to put it?”

            Tony holds up his hands and maneuvers his way over to the dud. Like a kid, he plucks it out of the air with a look of awe.

            “Pepper, are you okay?”  


            She nods at me absently, looking at the capsule. “Did you do that?” She asks Tony. “Pause it, like that?” Then she looks at me, and I stuff my hands in my jacket pockets.

            Tony points the dud in my direction. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

            Pepper sighs in exasperation. “That could’ve hurt somebody. What’ve I told you about-”

            “It wasn’t supposed to do that, you think I’d do something like that on purpose? Look, this was right here-”

            “No, I don’t need you to explain-”

            The arguing continues, as it often does. They’re rarely genuinely mad at each other- sometimes Tony’s only in it because he enjoys setting her off.

            When she’s had the last word and is heading for the stairs, Pepper touches my shoulder. “Thank you, for, that.”

            Tony shakes his head in disappointment once she’s left. “So, what else are you keeping to yourself?”

            “That didn’t bother her?” I ask. “That I did that?”

            “See, your biggest problem is that you judge yourself too harshly. If you’re not on your own side, why should anyone else be? You’re a mutant, chill out about it. Now,” he holds the capsule between his teeth as he pulls the glass stopper out of a tumbler of honey gold alcohol, “since you took your sweet time responding to my texts, the suit’s done. JARVIS’s painting it now.”

            “Then what the heck am I doing here?”

            “Sit.” He takes a long drink then refills the glass. “Believe it or not I have time to kill, so you are going to enlighten me, and you might as well tell somebody the truth, and since I’m not one to nark it might as well be me.” He turns a chair and sits in it backwards. “What kind of boarding school has its own jet?”

            I have to laugh at his boast of discretion. “Oh, yes if there’s anyone I trust not to get me in trouble it’s you. It’s a mutant boarding school. You probably see psychopaths on the news who use their mutations to go ballistic. Well, there are a lot of outbursts you don’t see because we try to stop them before they happen- sometimes by getting to the scene first. That’s what the jet’s for.”

“Huh. So they’re anti-terrorist.”

            I run my finger over a long scratch in the tabletop.   

            “And do you turn invisible?”

            “Do you doubt JARVIS?”

            “How do you do it?”

            “Nope, I am not a science experiment don’t ask me questions like that.”

            The gleam he gets in his eyes when he’s considering loopholes is unusually absent. I turn my seat away from him. “So, it’s finished?”

            He glances at the progress display. “Just about. Paint job’s got another hour.”

            “You know I’ll never be able to keep up with you.” I turn my seat back again.

            “Nobody can.” He sounds almost humble. “But, pretty soon I will figure you out and make an invisible suit that can teleport. Or at least once you decide to stop hanging out with me for good.”

            Getting up, I pour myself a glass of scotch. “World’s smallest violin.”

            “And I bet you’re a mean drunk.” He says with that wry smile of his.

            “I don’t get drunk.”

            “Is that another superpower? ‘Cause it’s _awful_.”

            “It is actually. I learned it from Logan.” He gives me a funny look. “ _No,_ his superpower isn’t the inability to get drunk. He heals fast, which means his liver can take more and he doesn’t get all stupid when he drinks. Unlike some people.”

            “Uh-huh.” He pours himself another glass. “So how did you meet this Logan guy, I mean, he just a teacher at your school?”

            “Yeah.” I take a drink. “We met when I was little. He’s a good guy.”

            “He a, friend of family?”

            I finish off the glass.

            Planning for the Stark Expo consumes Pepper’s every waking moment while Tony hovers about making wild decisions and flattering powerful people over the phone.

            “Pepper, you need anything?” I ask when she looks like she has a spare second to reply.

            “An aspirin,” she grumbles, shuffling papers. “You don’t have to get me anything, sweetie, thank you.”

            “Done deal, I’ll see you then.” Tony hangs up. “I’ll have a latte and if you could sprinkle a little old-fashioned brown sugar-”

            I smack him on the arm and go look for an aspirin and a glass of water.

            “Second cupboard on your left,” JARVIS directs as I enter the kitchen.

            When I return, Tony and Pepper are conversing in relaxed tones though Tony’s flirtatious pitch is still audible. Pepper smiles thankfully and takes the glass while Tony holds up my phone. “Is this yours?”

            “Do you recognize it?”

            He gives me a non-expression and tosses the phone to me. “It works better now.”

            “What did you do to it?” I ask with alarm. Pepper takes a call.

            “I fixed it.”

            “It wasn’t _broken_. What is- what’s the password, Tony?” You can’t give Tony Stark a no-nonsense look because he gets a bigger kick out of that than if you threw an infantile fit. Only he gets to throw those.

            “What’s my middle name?” he asks.

            I just shake my head and type in _Baywatch_. “You’re so dumb.”

            “Aha.” He jumps to his feet, and I move the phone just out of his reach as he tries to snatch it up again. “You read my mind.”

            “I’d be vomiting if I had.” I move so that Pepper is between us and stick out my tongue.

            “I’m sorry, could you give me a sec?” Pepper covers the mouthpiece. “Go downstairs. Now.”

            “Is that really the worst you could do, change my screen password?” I taunt as we tramp down the stairs.

            “Grasshopper, how much do you know about hacking?”

 

* * *

 

            Xavier has been on keen lookout for any traces of Magneto’s activities since the announcement of the bill. As a whole the Brotherhood has gone unnervingly quiet. Thus, tonight Charles was essentially relieved to discover two brethren skulking about an apartment building in East Manhattan. They didn’t appear to be up to any organized terrorism- petty theft perhaps, as they broke into an empty apartment.

            This isn’t much of a surprise to him. Empty homes are becoming rampant in this economic climate, attracting many an enterprising criminal. Still, if this act took place on their own time and not under the telepathic cloak the brethren seem to carry, what might be occurring right under his nose?


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of important days during the spring of 2010.

            _Saturday, March 13th_

            Times Square is slick with water. A certain portion of it floods every year, a massive, several inches deep puddle that most New Yorkers know how to navigate depending on their footwear and level of desperation. Matt and I skirt the edge, getting our toes wet while nearly being elbowed in deeper by crowds of galoshes.

            “I missed you,” I say once we’re under an awning, punching him in the arm. “Your girlfriend was annoying.”

            “Aw.” He gives me a damp hug. “We didn’t really have anything in common- it was, just, something that had to happen.”

            “Well,” I know I should say something reassuring, “you’ll find the right girl eventually.”

            When we enter the crowded, steamy café and I throw back my hood, he gives me a kiss on the forehead. “I’ve already got the right girl.”

            “Ew, don’t kiss me, you’re all…moist.”

            He laughs and shakes his umbrella out the door. We slide quickly into a just vacated booth where Matt struggles to take off his raincoat making it whimper and squeak as it rubs over the vinyl seat. The dishes from the last customers are still on the table and when he has a free arm, Matt points to the remnants in front of me. “That’s good, I’m getting that.”

            I push the plate toward him. “Have it now.”

            “I’m already sick, are you trying to kill me?” He coughs and sniffles to prove his point, then gives me a pathetic look.

            “Poor baby. Get yourself some chicken soup.”

            “Why, so you can eat a steak right in front of me, yeah right.”

            “No, I’m going to order the biggest, sexiest burger on the menu. And a milkshake.”

            He steps on my foot under the table. Obstinately, he orders the same thing as me and we spend lunch stealing each other’s fries.

            “So what have you been up to?” he asks. “Destroyed anything in the Danger Room lately? Wow, that’s a dumb name.”

            “Yeah, I’m still in Danger sometimes.” When I’m not in California. “I babysit a lot too. And you?”

            He shrugs. “School. And, you know, Whitney.”

            There’s more, I can hear it in his voice. “Really, that’s all? Which class are you enjoying the most?”

            “Um, they’re banking classes.” He laughs under his breath. “My econometrics professor is fun, but that’s because even he knows the subject is boring.”

            “So, what do you do when you’re bored?” I slurp up the last of my milkshake.

            “Well, I- you know, I listen to music, play Angry Birds _._ ”

            I sit back and check the time. “Do you ever write music?”

            He goes still as he stares at his greasy plate.

            “That’s cool,” I say, “what kind do you write? I know you like pop. Do you write lyrics?”

            He shakes his head and takes a sugar packet. “I don’t know how to write music.”

            “So take a class in that. If it’s something you like to do-”

            “Nah, my dad would never let it fly, are you forgetting the registered tax thing?”

            “Matt, you’re almost twenty-one you’re allowed to make a decision for yourself. One music class is not going to compromise your major. Write something so you can play it for me.”

            Matt smiles quietly, pouring the sugar into a small pile on his plate. “You don’t want to hear my music.”

            “Of course I do.”

            He bounces his knee. “You’re just saying that because I bought you lunch.”

            “Maybe you just bought me lunch so I would be nice to you.”

            “You’re not nice to me.”

            “I know. But I still want to hear your music.”

            Sighing he sits back, steps on both my feet, and looks around for the waiter while searching for his wallet.

 

            _April 22nd_

            Piotr and I are in the living room, tossing around pillows and looking under couches. I finally got the television off a _Hannah Montana_ marathon, but now it’s seemingly trapped on a news channel that spends its whole day filming the Roxxon oil spill. We have one student in a constant state of tears grieving the animals perishing in it. I would like to find whoever is responsible and drop them in the slick for an extended spa. If only greed could soak up oil.

            “Found it.” Piotr flicks off the TV. “Oh.”

            “Yeah, I could’ve done that.”

            “Alright, hold on.” He turns it back on and scrolls through the guide. “There.”

            “Thank you.” I take the remote when he hands it. “Can you tell Luis it’s on? He’s been looking forward to it.”

            The opening of the Stark Expo is being covered on most local channels. The school has scheduled three trips to visit over the span of the year. Most of the students are excited, among them quite a few “Iron Fans”. A dozen kids crowd into the lounge and prop themselves up with pillows to watch Stark light up a stage and introduce the festivities. Rain patters steadily against the windows, and someone suggests cookies.

            Jenny scoops generous handfuls of chocolate chips into the dough while Kyle strategizes how to make one giant cookie. Small, symmetrical lumps of chocolate-studded dough grace Jenny’s tray while Kyle’s come in many ambitious shapes and sizes. Since the time taken to bake left little time to enjoy the cookies during the show, there’s still a plateful of them when it ends.

            I leave it in Logan’s office.

* * *

  _April 25th_

            “Any luck?”

            Charles shakes his head as Jean holds the door to the study open for him. “We’ll see.”

            The other active X-Men including Piotr and Terry Rourke are already present, except for Logan who enters a moment later leisurely finishing off a cookie. It’s a bit stale since he didn’t find the plate until this morning after lifting his coat off of it.

            “Bring enough to share with the class?” Storm asks with a smirk.

            Piotr chuckles deep in his throat. “You got one of Kyle’s.”

            Logan purposefully shoves him with his shoulder, prompting the younger man to shove back. The two jostle for minor seconds until Jean and Storm chide them into behaving.

            Once all are settled, Charles begins giving a report from Cerebro. Jean, Scott, and Theresa are to investigate a warehouse in Queens where he suspects some Brotherhood activity to be occurring. In contrast, the other three will track a party of anti-mutants from the Church of Humanity, and prevent them from committing violence against a known mutant family in Hartford.

            As they file out of the room, heading for their intended destinations, Charles remarks to Scott, “For a moment there seemed to be a situation in Brazil, but it apparently cleared itself up.”

            Scott frowns. “And it was mutant related?”

            “You know, I lost track of him so quickly I really can’t say what it was.”

* * *

             _April 30 th _

            “Then just screw that back in there, just like that,” Tony leans over my shoulder, aiming the table lamp at my work. “Now the case, yep. And you’re good to go.”

            I bounce my phone in my hand to make sure nothing rattles. “And that’s it? Nice.”

            “Bye-bye, GPS. You’re officially off the grid.” He picks up the tools. “Once you get a laptop I’ll show you how to isolate that too.”

            We’ve spent most of the morning teaching me how to disassemble and reassemble my phone. Some of it is definitely in violation of patent and software laws, but Tony of course is not concerned. Pepper is out today, her first day as official CEO of Stark Industries. She practically ran the company already anyway. “Do you ever drive that?”

            Tony glances up at a skeletal looking motorcycle. “Um, sometimes.”

            “I like it. Logan has a bike.”

            “Has he now.” Tony digs a dingy USB cord out of a drawer and connects my phone up to one of his computers. “Does _he_ ever ride _his_?”

            “He has to get to the bar somehow.”

            Tony grunts and types away at the cryptic keys in front of him, a kind of shorthand between he and JARVIS like a language best friends make up so only they understand each other. That’s one way of isolating yourself.

 

            _May 3rd_

            “You’re scaring the crap out of me, are you okay? Is Pepper okay?” I had to see the event pop up online and nearly jumped to Monaco myself. “Which part of the world are you in right now?”

            “Stop worrying, geez, you’d think I’d had a heart attack or something.”

            “Or _something_? Who _was_ that guy? Where is he, is he behind bars, I’m going to kick his face.”

            “That would be interesting to watch,” Tony responds laconically, “but unfortunately- or, rather very fortunately– he’s in a cozy little jail cell somewhere in France. No need to defend my honor.”

            “And everyone’s okay? What about Happy, is Happy okay? Tony, I’m going to the Expo on the twelfth any chance some crazy weirdo with an electrified whip is going to showcase?”

            “Ace, I have to call you back, I’m- Hey, do you know how to make an omelet?”

            “I don’t want to know what that means-”

            “It doesn’t mean-”

            “Are, you, okay? Because I swear if you don’t give me a straight answer I’m telling Pepper how that sculpture ended up-”

            “Already told her, so, ha.” His voice is flat. “Unless you can give me some kind of walkthrough on omelet-making you might as well save your minutes.”

            “Fine. Have you beaten the eggs yet?”

            “Uh-huh, Miss Condescension. You know I have Wolfgang Puck on speed dial.”

            “You know I’m in your house drinking your bourbon.”

            “I need to Ace-proof that building somehow.”

            The next day I find I’ve left my phone in Malibu. When I arrive Pepper is in the living room as usual, although I assume she should have her own office now. Seated across from her is a younger woman with copper colored hair, rapidly answering questions over the phone as the two of them jostle vexing calls. There’s never anyone here when I arrive out of nowhere. I ran into the colonel once, but Tony had already told him about me- without permission- so he wasn’t exactly stunned.

            The other woman, who must be Tony’s new assistant, is immediately aware of me. She stiffens, and gently gets Pepper to look up.

            “I’m just here for my phone,” I explain.

            “It’s in a drawer in the kitchen,” states Pepper. “I had Natalie rescue it for you.”

            The redhead gives me an uncertain smile and an inquisitive look, but my mind is on finding that phone. I eventually do find it inside an empty cigar box. On my way out I give the assistant a quick once over. We make eye contact.

            The hair at the back of my neck prickles.

 

            _Sunday, May 16 th_

            “Did you see that YouTube video at that college? ‘Huge _hulk!’_ ” Matt laughs. Whenever he mentions anything to do with YouTube I turn off. A police siren whines several blocks away, and Matt skips over an unyielding pigeon pecking at a crumbled potato chip.

            “You said 109th right? 109th is that way.” I turn around and point.

            A fire truck begins to blare, joining the wail of the police sirens. Matt casually turns around and looks in the direction I’m pointing. “So it is.”

            Four new sirens are whooping down the road, headed our way. Cars in the street start to pull over to the side. Matt and I, along with a few other curious spectators, stop to watch as three cop cars barrel down the center of the street with an ambulance in tow. A rising chorus of sirens continues to clamor in the background as if every emergency vehicle in the city is part of an urgent migration.

            “There must be a doughnut shortage,” Matt jokes.

            “Or a building’s on fire,” I say.

            Our path happens to follow the turbulence, and as we get a few blocks closer to the crisis, we see thick billows of smoke above distant Harlem rooftops.

            “Ah, you were right.” Matt clicks his tongue and elbows me gently.

            I watch the smoke rise. A heavy _boom_ makes the glass storefront next to us shiver. “No. I don’t think I am.”

 

            _May 18 th_

            The phone picks up. “Yeah, hi, I’d like thirty boxes of Thin Mints.”

            “How’d it go, birthday boy?” I say, ignoring Tony’s retarded nature. “You may be the first historical account of someone literally trying to ‘raise the roof’.”

            “No, just the first floor ceiling. Yeah, it wasn’t exactly a success.” He sounds sheepish. “And then there was a Super Nanny, and this seagull, and- it’s a long, long story.” He falls quiet for a moment. “You know, you could’ve at least pretended you were concerned, what if my house was attacked, hm? Did you ever think of _that_ as a possibility?”

            “Who else would destroy your house from the inside out but you? And I have the cold, hard accuracy of YouTube to back me up. Your bimbos all had camera phones.”

            “I think someone’s jealous they didn’t get invited.”

            “It was a school night, and I had to chaperone a field trip to Tony World a day later, which by the way was not as interesting as it could’ve been. We left before the evening’s presentations, and apparently we missed some exciting stuff. So, yeah, nice to know you’re still alive, though I can’t say the same for your expo.”

            There’s a relieved sigh on the other end, but he’s quick to cover for it. “That’s an outrage, you didn’t get your money’s worth I think. How many kids went?”

            “Well, we had to take two buses, so, at least a hundred.”

            “And your school’s called ‘Xavier’s’?”

            “‘For Gifted Youngsters’ in Westchester. There’s an Xavier’s High School in the city that people keep mistaking us for. Why?”

            “Marketing research. Did they have fun?”

            “Oh yeah. Everybody liked the mutated carnivorous plant that could eat people.”

            He chuckles. “Well, you know, hypothetically.”

            “You try telling that to a group of twelve-year-olds. There was an excellent mutant exhibition too that was well-received. Those are usually very, shall we say, ‘ill-informed’.”

            “I don’t think I reviewed that one. Good, I’m glad it went well.”

            He sounds like a halfway decent person right now. I’ll take advantage of it in case he’s screwing with me. “Anywho, there’s a show on tonight and I have no way of watching it here because I’d have to share the TV with aforesaid twelve-year-olds, so can I crash over there? Or is your _assistant_ still there?”

            “My- Oh, _Natalie._ No she…got a better offer elsewhere.”

            “You suck at telling other people’s lies. What was she supposed to be? She was _not_ just an assistant.”

            He clears his throat. “That’s classified.”

            “Why does that sound dirty when you say it?” 

            “Geez, you act like I mess with your head.”

            “You forget I can’t help but hear you sometimes.” We discussed telepathy in full several months ago. “So, no Natalie then? I didn’t like her.”

            He kind of hums in amusement. “Well, you can have the house for a little while tonight, but you need to scoot out before we get home. The Peps and I have a date.”

            “That should go well.” I toy with a hole at the hem of my shirt. “Hey, did you- I’ve been meaning to ask, but, over the phone doesn’t seem like the right place. I was researching palladium, and…it kind of fits with something I noticed a while ago-”

            “Yeah.”

            “Yeah?”

            “It’s under control now. How’d you know?”

            “I hate you so much, you are- I have never known anyone who is so constantly at risk of dying as you. If it isn’t RPG’s in the Middle East, or a drunken car wreck, or being attacked at your own expo, it’s sticking a deadly chemical into your chest. I mean seriously, Tony, you stress me the hell out, knock it off.”

            There’s a very dry, very sullen chuckle at the other end. “What did I do to deserve you?”

            “I don’t know, but it was probably something really stupid. I want to ask ‘how are you’, but that sounds condescending, so I’m insulting you instead, I hope you understand.”

            “Don’t worry, I’ll be around to terrorize you a good while longer. Now if you excuse me, I have a date with a very lovely and deserving lady.”

            “You treat her right. And if she asks to drive, you let her.”

            “Yeah, yeah, I’ll have her back by ten.”

            “Make it eleven. My show’s playing late and you have better dish.”

            “Whatever. But you’re out when the car’s through the gate. And try not to damage yourself on any of the crap the construction workers left lying around.”

            “I’ll try. You guys have a good night.”

            “See, now you’ve jinxed it.”

            Two days later two hundred tote bags of Stark Expo swag arrive at the front door, coinciding with a hilariously ‘anonymous’ million dollar donation to the school. I start stockpiling Thin Mints to go with the two hundred thank you letters.           

* * *

             _May 23rd_

            Matthew stares hard at the number on the screen. God only knows who that could be. Crap, what if it’s Whitney? She’s still calling him two months later from different numbers, it’s crazy. He considers not picking it up, but who is Matt Larson to let a social interaction go unattended?

            “Hello?”

            “Um, hey,” mumbles a timid voice, “um…it’s…Vince.”

            “ _Vin?_ Dude! Where are you?”

            “Um…I’m just calling to say hi, and…”

            “What’s up, man?”

            “Just, how is everybody?”

            “Fine, I guess. I haven’t seen them in a coupla’ weeks.”

            “Oh, yeah, you, um…You still…in town then?”

            “Nah, nah, I’m living on campus now…Vin, where are you?”

            “I’ve got to go- don’t tell her I called, okay?”

            “Wait, Vin _how_ are you? Vin?”


	25. Chapter 25

            Danger’s kindly fashioned my latest assailant after the old enemy from my dreams. I practice mind control on him and throw some illusions in too so that he runs around attacking images he thinks are me.

            The lazy beat of “Back In Black” echoes from my locker as I change.

            “Isn’t this your usually scheduled day to come bug me?” asks Tony. “Get over here, and hustle it-” He pauses. “What’s your last name?”

            “Don’t have one.”

            “Is it embarrassing? Is it Muggleton? I knew a man named Muggleton.”

            I close the locker. “Well, then why don’t you come up with a last name for me? I’ll be there in a sec.”

* * *

 

            Ace clomps down the garage stairs in heavy boots, and jumps the last step. Seeing him, she beams. “Is that glitter?”

            He glances down. “Ah, yes, your classmates were rather liberal.”

            She bites her lip. “I may or may not have influenced the excessive use of it during production.”

            Tony smiles demurely. “Do you want to know why I called you here today?”

            “You were bored and really missed me.” When he narrows his eyes she narrow hers right back.

            “No, a certain government agent is coming by to harass me into being helpful,” he picks up a set of headphones from the desk and holds them out, “and you are going to go through my music library and educate yourself.”

            “How are the two related?” She takes the headphones.

            “They’re not; I just want to see if having you in the same room bothers him.”

            She rolls her eyes, but puts the headphones on anyway.        

            Agent Coulson follows him to the back of the shop, pausing as he notices a teenage girl sitting cross-legged in a swivel chair, her eyes closed, hands cupping a set of earphones. He flips through mental files and facts trying to find any record of a Stark niece, cousin, or ward. There’s not even a neighbor with a daughter that he can think of. He settles uncomfortably on some type of intern. Maybe Romanoff will have some input on the subject.

            Stark is always dogmatic about consultations occurring wherever he happens to be at the moment. If the locations are suitable, the agent finds it’s often best to just let him have his way. For now the girl is engrossed by whatever task she’s been given, and at this distance she couldn’t hear much anyhow. Aside from the omnipresence of the AI it’s still a private meeting.

 

            Ace yawns and rests her head in her folded arms. “How often does he come around?”

            “You know I have no sense of time.” Tony sets a loop of scrap wire on her head and continues typing code. “Are you paying attention?”

            Pepper enters the room in her precarious shoes, a distant smile on her face and a single sheet of type in one hand. Ace raises her eyebrows dolefully.

            “So, why no last name?” Tony asks, tapping away at the keyboard. “What’s your ancestry?”

            “I have no idea,” Ace sits up.

            Pepper clicks her tongue and lifts the wire crown off Ace’s head. Ace stretches and yawns again. Tony signs the paper willingly and gives Pepper a kiss on the cheek. Ace giggles very quietly and Pepper tugs her ponytail.

            “I’m ordering takeout. You want spicy or no?”

            Ace blinks twice. “Who, me? Spicy’s fine, thank you.”

            “Well, that narrows it down. What are you, Mediterranean? Asian? Texan?” Tony prods Ace with the loop.

            Pepper is about to confiscate it when Ace tugs it away and raises it like she’s about to smack him. Tony curls up in his seat, grinning, and Ace sets it where he can’t reach it.

            When Pepper’s gone again, Tony demonstrates his new method for donning the suit. The suit unfolds and clamps around his body, mechanical pieces sliding into place without help, assuming his shape like a mold. Within the hollow red casing, his new triangular arc reactor seems to glow more intensely than the last. Biting his lip, Tony nods his head up and down, waiting for approval.

            “Your head looks tiny.”

            Peeved, he dons the helmet too, and it contracts for a snug fit. “Better?”

            “Yes, now I don’t have to look at your face.”

            A frustrated sigh emanates from the mouthpiece.

            Ace cracks her knuckles against her chin. “How do you walk around with that big hole in your chest? Does it get infected? When are you going to get the shrapnel removed?”

            “It’s, not that simple.”

            “It’s not simple when you’re violently rich and a member of the scientific community?”

            “Why are you nagging me?”

            “Why are you still inviting me over?” She picks up the loop again. “I know you were dying, so you were trying to share your knowledge- I don’t know why you picked me I’m not as smart as you. There must be better people to share your knowledge with, so why am I still here?”

            “You know, I’ll be damned if there’s anything I could ever hide from you.” The suit unfolds from the middle and he steps back out. “I picked you because I liked the way you drove my car. Besides, you weren’t interested in money or climbing the social ladder which made you the wholesome choice. Did you honestly think I’d stop noticing you after I fixed my ticker?”

            She stares at the floor. “Tony, I can’t die.”

            “You told me.”

            “Yes, but…I have to watch…” She bites her cheek. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t think you’d want me around anymore.”

            He arches a brow. “Well, I’m still going to die _someday_.”

            She huffs with laughter, and he smiles even though he finally understands. There is no someday for her.

* * *

 

            “Your cell was off, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all day,” Matt censures. “Vin called me.”

            “Our Vin? Where is he? Is he all right?”

            “I don’t know. He asked how everyone was-”

            “And what did you say? Matt, what did you say?”  

            “I just kept asking where he was, but he kind of hung up too soon.” He pauses. “It’s not like he’s going to kill us in our sleep.”

            “No, John tried to torch Bobby in broad daylight.”

            “I know, I know.” His sigh sounds highly stressed. “Please come over.”

            Whoever does Matt’s laundry uses fabric softener. When we end our hug, he rubs his face and sits down in the booth. The cool, dark colors of the coffee house are mellowing, making it ideal for our conversation.

            “How did he get your number?” I ask, sliding in across from him.

            Matt sniffs. “Well, he had it.”                               

            “But he doesn’t have his phone, and you had to change your number.”

            His brows meet over the bridge of his nose, and he picks at the pile of empty sugar packets next to his phone. “It’s on my Facebook page, maybe he just logged in- I don’t know. I never thought he’d leave because he always talked about college and what he wanted to study.”

            Only because you were talking about it. He took drugs because others took drugs, he joined the Brotherhood because someone else joined the Brotherhood. He needed an example to follow and he found one.

            “He talked a lot about you. Like, he never shut up about you and what your opinions were about things. Like how you weren’t going to college and you weren’t joining the X-Men.”

            My hand twitches. “He wanted me go with him, so we could be Brotherhood together.”

            Matt takes a sharp breath and starts bouncing his knee beneath the table. “Yeesh, I’m glad you didn’t.”

            The sugar packets have been rolled into tight balls. His phone chirps and the sound sings throughout the room. Startled customers look around and at the baristas for some explanation as Matt swears under his breath, eyes squeezed shut.

            His dorm is unoccupied when we arrive. Matt leans on my shoulder, quieter than he’s ever been, and I lean my head against his, both of us muting the noisy building. We just sit there like that on the bed.

 

            Logan stands over the stove, an open soup can on the counter beside him. He runs his tongue over his teeth and looks sidelong at me. “You’re up late.”

            I open the fridge and stare inside, having no appetite for once.

            “There’s another can of this in the cupboard-”

            “I’m fine.”

            The metal spoon keeps hitting the edge of the pan as he stirs. “How long are you gonna be mad at me?”

            I close the fridge and walk over to rest my head on his shoulder. “Why isn’t he back?”

            Logan moves his arm around me so he can brush a hair out of my face. “Chuck’s still looking. When he finds him, we’ll do what we can about bringing him home.”

            I close my eyes and let my body sink. It’s been nearly a year.

            Xavier doesn’t look up as he carefully signs forms with a practiced hand. _Charles Xavier._ With his free hand, he adjusts the small pin on his tie.

            “So he’s just a man?” I try to imagine one man causing all the destruction I saw in Harlem. “And he’s mutant?”

            Xavier shakes his head. “It appears he is human. He is apparently also a fugitive, and has been pursued by the military for some time. Beyond that I have no further information.”

            The event occurred so abruptly, and the area was so soon crawling with federal officers, that it seemed best the X-Men stay away. “Well…where is he?”

            Xavier smiles wanly. “I’ve only ever noticed him when he is in his destructive form. The mind of the man is different from the mind of the creature, and one is far easier to ascertain than the other.”

            “So if he transforms under your sights you would lose track of him?”

            “I will lose my concentration on him since he is now another mind, but will not lose sight of him. However it takes him several hours, occasionally days, to transform back to his human self and of course I cannot monitor him for that long a period.”

            I run my finger over the embossed letters on Pepper’s official response to the school for all the thanks. Like Xavier’s current exercise, a quick and scratchy _Tony Stark_ is active at the bottom of the note- handwritten, not copied.

            “I heard there was a trail off the island and onto the mainland heading north.”

            “It’s possible he’ll find refuge in Canada for a time, though perhaps not for long.”

            I mean to ask him too about SHIELD, the organization Agent Coulson works for, but decide that can wait. “Logan says you’re still looking for Vince.”

            He pauses in his work, but does not look up. Whatever was left of hope swirls down the drain.

            “Alright,” Matt sounds fully recovered from the other day’s revelations, “there’s this end-of-semester party that’s thrown every year, but that I missed last year, so you’re coming.”

            I gnaw on a carrot and check to make sure the phone battery will last this conversation. “Your train of thought skipped a station, why am I obligated to come?”

            “Would you just say yes so I can go hit on the blonde hottie and the redhead who keep checking me out?” He gets really close to the receiver. “Actually, on second thought, I think you should just stay home for this party, it’ll probably be boring.”

            “Then it’s settled I’m definitely coming.”

            “Sweet. I’ll talk to you later.”

            “Hey, wait.”

            “Yeah?”

            “We’re going to be okay.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Trust me.”

            “I do.”

            I jolt in bed as my phone trills. Fumbling for it, I don’t open my eyes until I have to, thoroughly expecting a butt text from Matt.

            _Hardware._

            I mouth the word before I text it. _What?_

            _Your last name._

            I’m tempted to reach through the phone and strangle Tony for texting me at this ungodly hour, when I get it. _I’m going to murder you._

            _Lol. Best birthday present ever. Thanks, Hardware._

            I take the battery out and bury my face in the pillow.


	26. Chapter 26

            Matt hops up the stairs two at a time, bouncing on the landing as I catch up.

            “So, how did your date with ‘redhead’ Ashlyn go?” I cringe when he grins stupidly. “On a first date? That’s not even a date that’s…you’re a whore.”

            His shoulders slump. “You know, not everyone has to be as big a prude as you are.”

            I snort. “If I’m a prude then you must accept the title of ‘salacious pervert’. Move it.”    

            I smack him on the butt, successfully startling him. He skips up the remaining stairs to the open door emanating noise. Down the hall there are boxes spilling out of another room as a student stubbornly tries to pack during the festivities. 

            Matt puts an arm around me as we enter the epicenter of insanity, and leads me to a table supporting a vibrant metropolis of alcohol with a suburb of Solo cups and shot glasses. A large aluminum keg squats beneath it like a dormant, subterranean monster.

            “I’m kind of in limbo at the moment.” Matt sorts through the forest of bottlenecks. “Mom told me to come home, but Dad’s telling me I can’t. He’s been bitching because the apartment got broken into and he thinks I gave the key to one of my friends.”

            “That’s happening all over, what makes him thinks your friends would do that?”

            He lifts a bottle, sniffs the lip, and puts it back. “He means mutants. I could have  _no_ mutant friends, but that’s who he would mean.”

            No matter how I try to rationalize what I hear, Matt’s dad sounds more and more like an asshole. Finding a jar of maraschinos, Matt flips off the loosened cap.

            “Larry’s got a pal with a beach bungalow on the island, so we’re gonna spend the summer catching waves.” He grins around a cherry.

            When Matt says ‘the island’ he means the Hamptons. Not the rest of Long Island, just the Hamptons. I’ve even been lectured on how Westhampton does not count as one of  _the_ Hamptons.

            “Do you trust ‘Larry’s pal’?” I ask, refusing a cherry.

            He sets the jar down without the lid. “I trust him not to be some crazy serial killer, yah.”

            A whoop goes up and everyone present takes a shot. Abruptly, Ashlyn squeezes between me and Matt, drapes his arm over her shoulder, and gives me a predatory look. The blonde, Melissa, appears on his other arm with a bottle of tequila in hand, but clearly ate the worm a while ago. She smiles, but though she’s looking at me I know she has no idea where she is.

            Matt and Ashlyn talk about dancing, but there’s no room in hear for anything other than hypnotic moshing. Some girl in a ‘Blink If You’d Do Me’ shirt splashes beer over her alligator stilettos and starts to cry. Ashlyn rolls her eyes and lights a cigarette. “God, you’re all toddlers.”

            I give Matt a look. His eyebrows rise; oblivious.

            Someone coughs on the cigarette smoke, and alcohol magically appears in Matt’s hand again. The moment Ashlyn is preoccupied, I confiscate the beer and kiss his stubbled cheek. Armed thus, I start taking whatever liquid he’s handed and pour it in. He doesn’t object.  

            Melissa starts dancing on a dilapidated pool table, reminiscent of blue-haired Lyndsay, only far more graphic. When the group of guys around the table starts chanting for her to strip, I take Matt by the arm and pull him to the opposite side of the room. She’s not going to make the night. I don’t think that guy over in the corner is either. He might already be dead. Someone’s immediately got a marker handy, laughing as though an unconscious reveler at a college binge party is a rare occurrence.

            “Check his pulse,” I shout, hardly capable of crossing the packed room myself within the realm of physics.

            “That’ll get it done,” replies a male voice behind me. An average guy with black hair and a burgeoning beard steps next to me, Solo cup in hand. “Abe is a Neanderthal. I’m Jacob.”

            I shake his hand when he offers it, the formality feeling out of place. “Amy.”

            He raises an eyebrow and his cup at Matt who’s got his back to me at the moment. “You came with him? You…don’t really seem his type.”

             “You know him well then?” I shout.

            “I live here,” he shouts back. “Can’t sleep, might as well drink.” He gives a sardonic smile and a toast.

            At the measly snack bar set up in the corner there is an eddy of human beings lost from the flow of the crowd. I take up residence here, leaning on the counter with my cup of death. Chip crumbs, ranch, and a dusty residue I can only describe as the lovechild of dried cannabis and shrooms coats the surface of the counter.

            Ashlyn appears next to me out of nowhere, leaning over the counter as though she’s looking for something to eat. Without changing her expression or even making eye contact, she puts her hand in my face.

            “See my ring? It’s from Turkey.”

            “I saw that in Wal-Mart once,” I say, making sure to look anywhere but.

            “My family went on vacation to Europe for Christmas.” She shrugs. “Yeah, my dad’s a diplomat.”

            “I’m so sorry.” I tip over my cup on the already filthy counter. “I have to go refill this.”

            “Are you sleeping with Matt?” Her eyes finally meet mine.

            I choke on a horrified laugh. “You haven’t even known him a week.”

            “So I should just let you sleep with him, is that you’re saying?”

           I notice the empty cup in my hand. “I am not drunk enough for this conversation.”

           She takes a step forward, and I notice now how dilated her pupils are. She reaches for a fistful of my hair, but her arm passes right through me. Her face goes tight. She reaches for me again, phases again, and becomes frantic. This isn’t fun to watch. Leaving her to her misfortunes, I go see if Matt has any more alcohol to confiscate.           

 

* * *

 

            “I hate females.” Ace takes away his shot and throws it back.

            “I don’t mean to alarm you,” Jacob leans in confidentially, “but I think you’ve inherited the gene.”

            She laughs harder than she should, and Jacob smiles.

            Matt takes the glass and pulls her away from the table. “Let’s go.”

            _What are you doing?_

            “I’m gonna dance with you.”

            _With Jealous McPhee in the room?_

            “Can you, stop talking in my head? It’s freaking me out.”

            _You thought I was flirting with him._

             “He’s too old for you anyway.”

            She starts laughing again and pinches his arm. “I wasn’t flirting, I hate men.”

            “You hate too much.”

            “Maybe you love too much.”

            Matt chuckles harshly.

            “Your girlfriend’s high.” Ace looks up at him. “Thought you should know.”

            She takes the only unopened bottle left on the drink table, scowls when frat boys jostle her to get at the keg, and pops the cap off without an opener.

            Immediately Matt reaches for her hand and flicks the cap out of her palm. She takes a long drink as he watches the jagged cut rapidly disappear. Mildly shocked, he looks up. Ace stares back unmoved.

            “Did you forget? We’re not normal, Mattie.” 

 

* * *

 

            Outside I take long, cooling breaths of fresh air. “That was a pretty good party.”

            "You hated it.”

            I wave my hand then try to brush a stain off my shirt. “So, I’ll see you later?”

            “Are you kidding? We’re going surfing together.” He leans in unexpectedly and gives me a very sweet kiss on the cheek. “You take care.”

            I take a leisurely second to observe him; such an attractive kid, even with lipstick on his neck and pot on his breath. I give his hand a squeeze. “Ashlyn is a jealous freak.”

            “Can’t be worse than Whitney.” He scrunches his brow. “But I hear you.”

           Everyone in the neighboring dorms is fast asleep- exhausted from finals and preparing to head home and face their parents. I leave my sweater open in the warm night, the corners flapping back and forth as I walk. The path back to my usual jump point is dappled with lights from the dorms, but otherwise very obscure. Besides, they’re all so stoned and smashed they wouldn’t believe their-

            A noise comes from the trees and I stop mid step. Telepathy discerns six minds in the copse, and a light breeze favoring my direction tells that all are male adults and one is mutant. I scoff at myself for being so easily startled and keep walking. I wonder if it’s the same mutant I smelled at the party tonight. There was too much going on for me to focus, but the scent is vaguely familiar-

            I stop walking.

            There’s a grunt followed by sounds of a struggle. A click, a blow, and I divert my course just as a man falls into the dim light at the edge of the tree line.

           Pyro.

           He tries getting up quickly. There’s blood on his face, one leg won’t hold him up, and he keeps clicking something in his gloved hands while baring his teeth. The other men break the tree line, push him back down, and begin beating him.

            I deepen my voice.  _“Hey.”_

           Three men look up and in that second Pyro gets his device working again. The men ignite and begin flailing. One manages to jump back unharmed, but Pyro has him in his sights as he staggers upright.

            It takes less concentration than usual to put out the flames with a layer of ice, but not before a fire alarm is pulled in the nearest building. Gasping, the men stagger, and Pyro’s palms light up again as he advances. I put out my hand to freeze his gloves when two of the men, armed with knives, hastily tackle him from behind. Kerosene spurts from the tears in his sleeves.

            The attackers aren’t scaring easily. As the alarm trills on, doors start opening, and even as I rush into the fight I’m not fast enough.

            One gunshot and the shrieking starts. John Allerdyce is dropped in the dirt as the men disperse among the trees. John tries to get up, making me believe for a moment that the shot missed. But as I kneel down beside him this hope shatters.

            Blood gushes from his head and he now lies still. His eyes are rolling back and forth in their sockets, and his lips are open like a fish. I tear off my sweater, ball it up, and press it carefully against his matted hair, wishing I had a better plan. People are yelling into cell phones, at each other, at nothing.

            _“Ace?”_  shouts Matt somewhere.

            “Get an ambulance,” I shout back.

           I try to make John comfortable, and lift his head and shoulders into my lap. I  _look_  for the bullet hoping maybe there’s an easy way to take it out before remembering whatever damage I do won’t simply heal. There’s a cut on his lip, and his nose is bloody and broken. He’s trying to talk, guttural noises escaping from his open mouth.

            “I’m getting you out of this, I swear you’re going to be-” I bite my tongue so hard I taste metal, eyes clouding up with salt. Why? The gas lines were severed, the fire was out, and he couldn’t even run. Why? 

            All he has left are his thoughts, hazy whispers to violent shouts. Every black thing he’s ever conjured is being sucked down, down, down. But I listen, carefully, for his last words, his final rants at a world that for him was always destruction and chaos. It pains me to see through his eyes, but now the world will never feel the burden of that viewpoint. His rage fizzles as the blood slows, and all that’s left is ice cold fear. The remnant embers of his consciousness mingle with mine, inciting disorder.

            Sirens can finally be heard and my heart eerily beats twice fast as his stutters its last. By the time footsteps start beating my way, his mind is gone and blood is pounding between my ears. Heat radiates throughout my body as I lay John down and walk into the trees. A human scent permeates my nostrils- singed hair and sweat.

            A warm shiver crawls through me.

 

* * *

 

            The chain link fence caught on their clothes and cut their hands, but now there’s a mile between them and the university. The five of them keep pace through alleys and delivery bays, sticking to the shadows. One of them sees a camera over a delivery entrance, but doesn’t register it.

            Suddenly he feels a sharp pain, clutches his chest, and falls to the ground. Unaware, the others keep running. It isn’t until the fifth man hears the lone echo of his footsteps that he slows down, looks back, and sees no one following him. An aura trembles in the corner of his eye and he blinks. The alley is silent. Heart racing, throat tight, he sprints harder than he ever has.

           Two strong hands take hold of his shoulders and jerk him backwards. Stumbling, he manages to keep his balance and spin around. No one’s there. He watches as the air materializes into the mutant girl who put out the fires, and hastily draws his weapon.

            “What the fuck did you do?” He aims at her face. “Where the fuck did you come from?”

            Gradually, his elbow bends, arm rises, and the cooled muzzle presses startlingly against his own temple. Terrified, he tries to pull it away, even attempting to force it with his other hand. A cottony sensation tells him that part of his mind is no longer his own. Panic mounting, he shouts as hard as he can, but no sound comes out.

            In all this time the girl hasn’t moved or spoken. Now slowly she raises two fingers to her temple. They twitch.

            The gun fires.  


	27. Chapter 27

            The phone vibrates alarmingly on the dresser.

            “Do you have any idea-”

            “No.”

            “You saw it on the news, right?”

            “Everybody saw it on the news, I don’t know what it’s about.”

            “Ace, you were there.”

            “No, I jumped home, I wasn’t there.”

            “You told me to call an ambulance.”

            “Why would I tell you to call an ambulance if I wasn’t there?”

            Matt exhales over the phone. “I’ve got your sweater, what do you want me to do with it?”

            A second passes. “I’ll come get it.”

            “Ace, those guys-”

            “ _Just shut up_ , I’ll come get it. Where are you?”

            “I’m outside the tavern.”

            He was smart enough at least to wrap it in a plastic bag. I find him leaning outside the university drinking hole with his eyes down, looking conspicuous.

            “Nobody noticed it,” he says in a half-tone. “Paramedics just ditched it.”

            I stuff the bag safely inside my coat- it’s a miracle no one was anxious about a bloody sweater.

            “Cops were all over the place,” he continues. “They thought the school was being attacked or something, so they made us stay behind the police cars while they looked for the shooter. Then they found a backpack in the quad, and the whole place was evacuated. Like fifty ambulances had to round up everybody who was passed out, and I thought I was out too when I saw it was John they were carrying away. They didn’t find those other guys until six. Some delivery guy found them. Poor guy.”

            “They’re going to ask questions, Matt. They’re still booking underage drinkers and drug offenders as we speak. Did anybody ask you any questions?”

            “No, I left, I had your sweater-” I hiss at him to shut up as someone passes by. “I went back to my place. Now you’ve got me nervous, what if they ask about it?”

            “No one will ask you anything, just say you were hammered.”

            “I wasn’t.”

            “You had some drinks, drunk or not they can’t use it. Don’t think about it, don’t worry about it.” I glance up the road in a casually perturbed manner as though my ride is late. “I’ll call you later.”

            “Wait,” he drops his arms and looks me in the eye, “was Vin with him?”

            Fear might be what makes me notice Matt’s eyes for the first time. They’re the color of blue ice, glacial. “No. It was just John and those men.”

            He sorts of nods then shakes his head gently like a bobble head that was just jiggled. He does this when he doesn’t understand or wasn’t listening. “Do you know why they were here?”

            That hasn’t exactly been my concern during the last twelve hours. “I really haven’t thought about it.”

            He now nods forcibly and squints as though trying to assure himself of something. “Okay. Okay, well, we’ll know soon I guess.”

            We will? “Why do you ask?”

            He shrugs and makes a face. “I don’t- I don’t know, just, it’s weird, y’know?” He rubs the back of his neck. “You’re smarter than me, so if you- I thought if you knew anything-”

           The less you know the less you have to say. “Don’t dwell on it. Just go home, pack up, and head to the beach, okay?”

            He smiles distractedly.

                       

            Gasoline glugs onto the stained sweater, speckling the black dirt around it.  _Holding_ the lit match between my fingers, I try to concentrate. The flame pops up on its own, dancing over my skin and scaring me so bad I shake it straight off and into the woods. Dry leaves tremble and glow, then die again as I suck the flame back to my fingertips. Taking a deep breath, I carefully aim this time. It lands adorably close to the sweater, biding its time with a twig, before striking with ferocity and engulfing the garment. The breeze scatters the smoke spinning it away from the school and into the woods. Eventually, except for the deformed plastic zipper there isn’t a trace of sweater left. I kick dirt over the site before covering it with loam, and erase my tracks the whole way back.

            The rage didn’t last nearly long enough. The bathroom door practically locked itself that’s how out of control I was as I kneeled over the toilet and retched. The lights quivered, the shower rings chattered, and my hands nearly froze to the seat leaving bloody handprints to run down the sides as it thawed. After the third gut-wrenching episode I jammed my fingers down my throat to purge whatever was left of the hideous parasite that had killed those men.

            Then I just prayed I’d choke to death.

            The sun would rise in a few bare, bleak hours, and I was too wired to do anything like sleep. After an unappetizing breakfast I was out the door. Every time I’d ask myself where I was going, my feet would turn me east motivated by an insistent drive to see if I’d left any details, if there was anything I could undo. Maybe I was wrong, maybe John hadn’t died, maybe I hadn’t been very thorough, maybe they all just got up and walked home.

            Why was I the one to stop it? Where were the X-Men, where was Xavier’s all-seeing eye that I’m now avoiding? Answers to those kinds of questions would require that I go back to the mansion, and I don’t ever want to go back there. They’ll notice my absence soon, and besides where would I go? Tony’s is the only other place I have, but I’d like to never go there again so it can always be part of the “before.” School gets out at the end of the week, I can leave then, see Matt. No, he stays in the “before” as well. Why is my life always before and after? Before I came here, before I healed, before Vince left, everything is before something. Even the life I led before here was filled with befores. It was only recently that the “after” started to feel like an improvement.

           I jump to the kitchen to see if there's anything left from dinner that I can just grab and eat in my room. My mind might be a disaster and my appetite gone to hell, but I've always done my best to care for my body. I take as many bread rolls as I can carry in one hand and grab a sweaty piece of meat from a tray in the fridge. For a long minute I stand unmoving in the doorway between the kitchen and the serving counter, staring at the polished metal surface with food clutched in each hand. Fatigued in a new way, I decide against teleportation. My limbs are leaden, and want only a trip up the stairs to lighten them again.

           This decision turns out to be a mistake. I nearly jump out of my skin when Scott unexpectedly steps out of his office and beckons me inside. I stand there savagely with my dinner in my hands, windblown from being outdoors all day, and with my heart most likely beating loud enough for him to hear.

            “Have you talked to Matt?”

            I try to relax my frozen features. “I went and saw him.” I’ve missed most of what’s gone on here today. No doubt the X-Men know of the event by now, though hopefully they don’t and will never know much. “Why do you ask?”

            "Well then he probably already told you.”

            “There was an issue, I know that, but he didn’t really mention it. Why, what is it?”

            “A student was shot and killed, and then the dorms were evacuated due to a bomb threat. You didn’t hear about it?”

            I shake my head and shrug, vaguely amused by the reference to John as a university student. Scott nods and pats my arm awkwardly. “In any case, I want you to tell him if he needs a place to stay he’s always welcome here.”

            I wonder how much he knows about Matt’s home life. “He’s got a place, he’s fine.”

            “Tell him anyway.” He nods, to assure I’ll do this. “So he didn’t say anything about-”

            “He didn’t see much I don’t think. Really, you’d have to ask him yourself.” Wanting to end the subject, I lift my hands a little. “I missed dinner, so.”

            “Yeah, yeah.” He holds the door open for me, his mind on other things.

            Once in my room, I turn off my phone and hide it in a drawer. 

           Sunday afternoon they announce the discovery of the other bodies on the news, but do not mention them in connection with the college shooting. The reporter puts on a disturbed expression when describing just how confused the authorities are by this case, but manages not to give much actual detail. Then, the story is dropped. I had prepared myself for a drawn out love affair between the media and this gruesome event. Being swept under the rug is too much to process.

      

            In bed the sheets cling to me, the blankets are stuffy, and the pillow turns to Styrofoam. The floor is more comfortable, but then I’m wide awake, so outdoors I go. It’s cool out, skin pricking cool, but not cold enough for me to consider going back inside. Stars grimace as the moon gives me a Cheshire cat leer from behind the trees. I’m on a step holding my head in my hands for no apparent reason while my chest feels so tight my ribs might crack.

            Sharp, lucid images from that night play back. What part of me knew I could give a guy sudden cardiac arrest remains uncertain. Nor do I understand how I knew how to collapse a lung using telekinesis. The broken neck, however, was mundane in its simplicity. One sharp tug with the same ability and I could have potentially beheaded him. Repulsed, I shake these vile observations from my head. My entire being feels corrupt, violated by itself, irreparable yet strangely whole.

            My teeth are chattering uncontrollably. Occasionally I fall into a fit of sobs that rack my body. Sometimes there are tears, but generally my sobs mean to crush me like a paper ball. In the dark my eyes play tricks on me, creating little flickers in the corners of my eyes, making it seem as though flighty figures are dashing back and forth among the trees and about the gardens. I know no one is out there in those concealing woods, but this doesn’t stop paranoia from throbbing like fever in my head. A frog croaks in the fountain, croaks again, and I calm down. The frog is safe. Whatever else seems unreal, the frog is safe.

            There’s a stray cat that’s been haunting the mansion lately. When I came down here he came also and sat on the step beside me as if we’re both out having a smoke. No interaction, no acknowledgment of any kind, just company. Animals always treat me this way no matter the species. We stare out at the landscape under the full moon, naked behind her gauze of clouds. 

 

            When I’m finished serving meals, I eat alone in the staff room, though aware of how unusual this is I tried at first to take my meals at the normal times with the others. This proved immensely overbearing considering this place is crawling with telepaths, so now I barely eat there at all. 

            “You okay?” Logan asks as I jump when he enters the staff kitchen.

            “Tired. Up late.”  _Why are you lying to him?_

            “Where’ve you been?” He reaches over to pinch my ear, but I tug away.

            I don’t know if my emotions also transfer to people I touch, but now is not the time to test it. “Busy.”

            He grunts, pouring himself a mug of hours-old coffee. “Busy doing what?”

            “Nothing.” Hands full, I shut the fridge with my hip and use technopathy to turn up my music. I’ve already set my food down on the table when I wonder if it wouldn’t have been better for me to eat in my room instead. But Logan doesn’t stay long and for a brief moment I have the room to myself. Then the tea kettle whistles on the stove. I should’ve noticed that.

            Before I can leave who else but the Professor should enter with his empty teacup. I don’t want to offend him by leaving, so I offer a grim smile and hunch down in my seat. Unfortunately, Xavier has a pleased look and an arch to his brow indicating he has something interesting to say. He rolls up to my table, saucer in hand.

            “I’ve finally tracked him down.”

            “Who?” I pull out one earbud cautiously.

            “Your Harlem conundrum. He’s exactly where I thought he’d be.”

            I’m still a little lost, but memory is coming back gradually. “Canada?”

            “Bella Coola, British Columbia to be exact. He’s found himself a nice hideaway in the mountains, perfectly secluded.”

            It sounds like rain after an eternity of drought. “Oh. What’s he like when he’s normal?”

            “As it is, I’ve actually heard of him before. He’s a Dr. Bruce Banner, a geneticist. It appears the creature is the tragic mistake of an experiment he tested on himself. Frankenstein is his own monster.” He lowers his chin to show his gravity despite the light reference.

            I take a drink of lukewarm water to calm my nerves. “And you mentioned the military last time, what do they want with him?”

            “Ah,” he sips his tea, “well, I have no concrete information there. I’ve hardly a clue of what Banner meant to achieve with his experiment even.”

            I roll down my sleeves, still wearing flannel shirts in this heat. “Is he aware of what he’s done? Or…what the  _other_ he has done?”

            “Indeed, he appears to be working on controlling it.” His brows furrow gently as a thought comes to him. “I wonder why with his condition he would find himself in a place as heavily populated as Harlem?”

            I notice the food on my plate and nudge it around. “How is he working on controlling it?” 

            “Heart rate and temper seem to be the deciding factors.” Another sip. “I haven’t really been studying him like a field researcher, Ace.”

            I give a weak smile in response, itching to get away somewhere he can’t see me. “Bella Coola is countryside, yes? So…he’s not staying with friends I take it?”

            “No, no. He had many friends within the scientific community who would surely give him aid, but he’s obviously taking efforts not to harm anyone.”

            “Of course, of course.”  _Stop repeating things._ “Complete isolation, hermitic isolation, can be very…damaging.”

            “Humans are social creatures; we need diverse interaction to thrive.” His lips purse as he mulls over this facet of psychology. “Well, may we hope the best for him.”

            I wipe my mouth with a napkin and clear my throat. “And what part of Bella Coola did you say it was?”


	28. Chapter 28

            It all comes back to me the moment I see his face.

            A flat river snakes through the empty meadow, a sea of roiling green grass. To my right sprawls a mountain of shale, aspens and poplars sprouting from its toes. Following the river, I pass a dilapidated wooden structure, once a barn or workshop of some kind, and come upon the squat cabin not far from. There I catch my first glimpse of the raging menace.

            I try my best not to startle him, putting myself out in the open so that he may see all of me, see how meaningless I am. But with the type of people hunting him down, anything can have meaning. When he does see me he stops his work to stare me full on; shoulders relaxed, but face tense. I look like any American hiker, but the sun will set soon and there’s nowhere else I might be going. There wasn’t even a trail to this cabin it’s so far off the map. I continue walking toward him, hoping he won’t bolt, while sweating over my awkward first words.

            “Dr. Banner?” No response as he holds my gaze frostily. I allow myself to seem as nervous as I feel. “I want to help.”

           

            Twilight leaves a film on the glass bottles in the window. He’s seated on an overturned crate by the cast iron woodstove, allowing me the only chair in the room. We’re eating part of the peace offering I brought; Top Ramen. The other gifts are arranged neatly on the swelling shelves behind me.

            “Look, you…I’m not safe to be around.”

            I suck broth off the ends of the cheap chopsticks. “I’m not afraid of you.”

            “You, should be. I’m not…”

            I tilt back the bowl. “I’ll clean my own dishes.”

            “No, don’t, don’t worry about them. I like doing the dishes.” Then he kind of swallows knowing how pathetic that sounds. “So are you- are you from? New York?”

            I grip the stoneware. “I’m not from anywhere.”

            He rubs his thumbs together, studying me doubtfully.

            “You don’t trust me.”

            “You didn’t find me by accident.”

            “No.”

            He leans back with an unsurprised air. “You came all the way out here-”

            “I trust you. Right now I have no idea what triggers you, it could be anything.” I kick the metal stove in an involuntary manner. “Yet I’m still sitting here because I know you can’t hurt me.”

            He takes a deep breath.

            “I’m not here to turn you in.” I set the bowl down in my lap. “I shouldn’t be around people either.”

            He chews on his lip. “Is that so?”

            All this time we’ve hardly looked away from one another’s eyes. But now I look down at the embers, breaking his contact, so he’ll see the tension in my neck. “I’m a mutant who can’t always control her ability.”

            He blinks and a small change is discernible in his eyes. Then he licks his lips and clears his throat. “And what is your ability exactly?”

            My bowl lifts out of my lap on its own. For a second he doesn’t notice, fixated on my face as he looks for the lie. I take the bowl in my hand and vanish with it then set it down at his feet and reappear. I’m surprised by the suggestion of a smile, the light in his eyes now a glow, as he bows his head slightly. “That gets out of control?”

            “Along with other things.” I tighten my shoulders and press my hands between my knees, not for show this time. “They aren’t all that tame.”

            I’ve seen that glow in Tony’s eyes as well. It’s usually followed by some form of compulsive or thoughtless behavior, generally consisting of merciless teasing and cloying interrogation. But Banner is a different breed of observer.

            “When-” He forms his words carefully. “What makes you…lose control?”      

            When I fail to reply he blushes and rubs his knuckles. Then he stacks the empty bowls carefully and carries them and the chopsticks to a wash basin. “Look…I need to be alone. You understand.”

            “You forget what your own voice sounds like because you have no one to talk to.”

            He holds his breath and sets the bowls down carefully.

             “Other people make you anxious, not just because they might turn you in, but because you only want to be near them, to touch them, to talk to them for hours. You begin to crave that contact in a way that would’ve worried you before.”

            He turns around and rubs his hands together.

            “I’ve been around a long time. Spent a bit of it…very secluded.” I shrug and look at the furniture. “I’m used to this.”    

            And I am. Something, or everything, about this cabin feels familiar as though I’ve lived in it my whole life. Bruce remains leaning against the table, looking about him as well. “Used to this. What did you do that made it necessary for you to become used to this?”

            “Exist.” The light is going fast. “I knew the wrong people at the wrong time. That’s all. Except, I wasn’t entirely alone,” I look up at him, “I lived with a friend, and we got through it.”

            Fortunately, he’s accepting me to be older than I look, though to him I can’t appear any older than twenty-five. He understands genetics, knows there are common aberrations, and gives me the benefit of a doubt. Unfurling a light sleeping bag, I take up the floor space in the very center of the cabin. I assured him I have a small campsite a few miles out, but he didn’t want to send me that far in the dark. By lunchtime tomorrow he’ll be desperate to keep me here.

            Bruce breathes softly in his bed as embers separate in the stove. Beneath me, a mouse rearranges its nest under the floorboards. Surreally, I feel that I’ve left myself and all my thoughts back in New York and the part of me that’s here is the part that wants to sleep. Just sleep, and sleep forever until all is made up. The mouse settles down.

 

            He laughs, a beautiful sound, then turns away to rub his eyes. “That one’s good.”

            “Then you’ll have to hear him say it when you get back because I don’t deliver it as well.”

            He tries to keep smiling, afraid to say that’s unlikely. He’s spent the last several years trying to kill the monster, but that path ultimately led him to Harlem. Now he only cares about controlling it. I skip over a rotting log. “What’s the first thing you want to do when you get back?”

            He huffs sardonically and looks at the sky. “Back where?”

            I yawn. “Where’s home?”

            He smiles thinly. “A real shower would be nice. Do you plan on going back home, Ace?”

            Maybe that was a bad line of questioning. “I don’t know. I don’t really have anything to go back to.”

            “Nothing?” he asks. There’s an edge to his voice, the kind that wants to sound nonchalant, but dips unconsciously into compassion. “What about family?”

            “Do you?”

            He swallows and hikes ahead of me. “You must have somebody, Ace.”

            _Betty._

            I feel cheated. Here I thought this man was entirely alone in the world. It’s an irrational thought of course; Xavier himself said Banner had close colleagues. “I had a friend, but…we’re not friends anymore.”

            “What happened? Sorry, you don’t have to tell me.”

            The need to hear another human voice. “We got in a fight and haven’t spoken in a year.”

            It’s been two miles mostly uphill and he’s still breathing as if it’s a ramble about the park. “How long had you known each other?”

            I add up the months in my head. “Three and a half years.” It felt longer.

            “What was she like?”

            “He.” I squeeze my eyes shut. They’re dry, and burn from lack of sleep. “He had a lot of pent up issues, angry at the world. You know.”

            He gives a rather unexpected sigh. “I’m sorry.”

            I’ve never heard that said with so much sympathy before.

            At the foot of the mountain is a lake, the beach coated with bleached stones. We travel along the edge until he points out a boulder easy enough to climb  and hoists himself up. Then he reaches down to take my hand. Gunfire, heat, fear, confusion, shame, guilt. I shiver and pull myself up. Sighing contentedly, he walks to the summit and looks out over the lake. “This is what air is supposed to taste like. Don’t you think?”

            I smile as the breeze brushes his curls. He stands precariously at the edge of the rock, teetering over an eight foot drop into snowmelt. A hunter’s rifle goes off in the distance, but Bruce doesn’t seem to notice. After a moment he turns.

            “Hey, are you alright?” His boots scuff over the rock.

            “Yeah.” I catch my breath and lower my hand from my forehead. “It’s okay, I’m alright.”

Anxiety attack, very mild, unlike others I’ve had recently. Maybe the healing factor keeps them brief, or maybe I’m just weird.

            Uncertain, Bruce helps me stand. “Should we turn back?”

            I should probably get some sleep. “No, no, don’t worry about me, I’m fine. Let’s keep walking.”

 

            Over the next three days Bruce regularly ask questions about my mutation. “What does it feel like when you’ve learned a new one? How do you know it’s taken?”

            “I test it out.” I smile. “Set a few things on fire doing that.”

            A flock of grouse takes off a few yards away, and there’s a small mammal in a tree we’re coming up on. I stand still for a moment to determine the species. Bruce watches curiously.

            “Do you enjoy them all?”

            I blink. “Well, I guess not. Do you get joy out of owning appliances?”

            “So it’s like owning a toaster, a blender, and a refrigerator?” He laughs, sending a warm thrill up my spine.

            We keep walking. As the hike continues I notice a rising sense of nervousness in him. Maybe there’s something I missed. I listen around again, taste the wind, but nothing’s out of the ordinary. So it’s internal. I try not to listen in, but I can’t help but be intrigued. Once so far he’s insisted I leave the house. When I tiptoed back an hour later he was nowhere to be seen, but the wood pile was scattered as though by a strong wind. I spent hours restacking it, cooled off in the river, and then waited until sundown before tucking myself into my sleeping bag. He struggled back in during the night, shirtless and shivering, and I feigned sleep as he dressed.

            Since the first night he’s invited me just to stay. I don’t take up much room. I roll up my bag every morning before dawn, before he wakes up for his early jog, so it isn’t in his way. I cook his meals, sweep off the porch, and talk to him. Incessantly.

            Now he sits by the fire, nodding as I spout meaningless rhetoric to kill the time.

            “So, your healing ability could potentially keep you from aging.”

            “It- yes.”

            “So you could be practically any age right now and I wouldn’t know?”

            “Well,” I deliberate, “in a sense. I’m- I tell people my age by how I look.”

            “So, how old are you really?”

            “Older than you. Hey, the ‘other guy’, he can take a lot can’t he? I mean, smashing stuff should cut you up, but you don’t have any scars.”

            He shifts uncomfortably. “It hardly affects him. I’ve known some things to hurt him, but they’re completely gone when I reform.”

            “What about the rest of the time? Could you still get sick and die or does it work against that too?”    

            He shakes his head. “He can take a lot, yes, but _I_ don’t heal. Not like you. I can die of things, probably. Just, nothing that will trigger him.”

            “Who’s Betty?”

            He looks alarmed.

            “I’m sorry. I heard you thinking about her.” There’s also a photo of her in his journal. It got knocked off the table when I was sweeping, and the photo just fell out. She’s pretty in a muted way, with a quiet smile and soft eyes, hair straight and very little makeup. She’s just the type I imagined him with. Not that I do that often.

            He licks his lips. “She’s a colleague- was, a colleague of mine at the university. We worked on the gamma project together.”

            I really don’t care what Betty’s like, I only care what he says about her. His voice gets a foxed edge as he tries to address the subject with all the detached formality of describing a mild acquaintance. But when he speaks Betty becomes the only person in the world, and the things he’s not saying fill the room with warmth.

            It’s wrong what I want, this thing that makes my skin prickle when he says my name or brushes past me in the cabin. When he looks me in the eyes, when he smiles, when he reads, when he moves, when he sleeps; everything he does is impossible.

            “Now, I was born in the Dark Ages,” Bruce jokes, “so really how much older than me are we talking? At what age did you notice you’d stopped aging?”

            I pull my hands into my sleeves. “I haven’t. I…I wasn’t aging properly until a few years ago. I’ve been a kid, a little kid, for a pretty long time. A couple years ago someone noticed I’d grown an inch, and that’s when I first realized I was aging properly again. So, I guess physically I’m eighteen or whatever, but I’ve been alive longer than that.”

            His eyes are wide and shining as he leans forward in earnest. “So, what, you’ve been an adolescent for twenty years? That’s the stuff of nightmares.”

            I can’t help but laugh, something I wasn’t expecting out of all this. “Yeah, longer than that, but yeah. It has kind of sucked. I rebooted or something around high school though, so it’s picked up speed lately. It’s nice to age a year at a time again.”

            He sits back and I realize of course that he can’t possibly believe a word of what I’m saying. The healing I can demonstrate, but the rest makes me sound like a gigantic fraud.

            “It sounds very tiring,” he remarks, “being alive that long. When were you born?”

            “I don’t know. I’m going to bed.”

 

            Whatever it is that causes him to explode into the fury that overtook Harlem, I haven’t figured it out. He seems the picture of control. At least he can say his grievances were caused by another entity. I’m wholly responsible for mine.

            I can still see my hands smeared with John’s blood. It seemed to be everywhere, just when I thought I’d cleaned it all off I’d find another speck or splotch hiding between my fingers or on the back of my hand. His persona swelled within me, yet I don’t blame it for my actions. It was the fear and the desperation clouding up his last conscious seconds that tore at me. For a moment I forgot he was a criminal and saw only an abandoned human spiraling into oblivion. Maybe I felt these sensations strongly because my empathy was at its peak, or maybe I’ve always known them. Too many questions stem from that event, but I’m afraid to know the answers.

            Caught up in his own dilemmas, Bruce hardly notices mine.

            I bite the back of my hand, trying to calm down. Screaming usually relieves some tension, but controlling sound is almost impossible at this juncture. Bruce stands right behind me, his back to me as he sorts through cans on the shelf.

“I swear I brought one with me.”

            Gradually my muscles relax. By the time he turns around I’m perfectly composed, stirring the pot over the embers, willing my limbs to stop shaking. He touts a can of fruit cocktail. “See? I brought my own treats.”

            “Peaches swimming in corn syrup taste better and you know it.”

            He sets the can on the desk. “I was saving this for the Fourth of July.”

            “You’re in Canada.”

            “All the more reason. But, America hasn’t exactly been doing me any favors lately.” The can opener punctures the lid with a loud pop. “Sorry, Mother Liberty.”

            “Some mother.” I tap the spoon against the rim. “She’s more tyrant than her predecessor.”

            “This country still has the queen on their money, watch what you say.” He smiles at his own joke.

            I lean back in the chair. “Do you plan on going back at all?”

            Carefully, he parts the lid from the can, avoiding the razor edge. “No.”

            I rub my cheek. “Yeah, me neither.”

 

            The warm breeze succeeds in distracting me from my thoughts. I close my eyes. There are deer in the woods behind me, calmly stepping around in the loam. An insect hums around a wildflower fifteen yards ahead of me while a ‘V’ of geese fly overhead towards the lake a half-mile away. Bruce’s footsteps slap against the path, worn almost to the bare dirt. His thoughts are always about two things: fighting himself, and getting back to Betty. All this running and hiking he does every day is to push his limits and see how high he can get his heart rate without becoming ‘the other guy’, so one day he might be able to just run home to her.

            At the moment his breathing is steady, heartbeat strong; both growing louder the closer he gets. I open my eyes to see him when he comes around the bend. He’s a few yards from my rock when he raises one finger and shakes it slowly for emphasis. Every day he tries to go a few more yards and a few more yards, but today he’ll go the full lap. If he can’t handle it, if he loses control he doesn’t want me to be there, but I need to be there. I need to feel that catharsis in another human being. Not even Betty can understand that.

            Before the sun sets I slide off the rock to head home and start dinner. When my feet hit the ground my body becomes sluggish and heavy, and all that way just to cook dinner sounds tedious. Even climbing back on the rock seems like an extra burden, so I sit down in the dirt with my legs splayed out in the weeds. I close my eyes again, and soon fall into a hazy half-sleep.

            The birds in the trees and the creatures on the ground mix with vague and distant memories creating blurry figures and mumbled voices. They stand around me, characters from my present and past, discussing events now and then as though they were yesterday. No one seems concerned, everyone knows everyone, but none of them talk to me. I’m in the middle of the room, and no one even looks at me.

            A mosquito buzzes in my ear. I sit up, shaking out my hair and pulling it away from my face. The sun went down long ago. I stand up quickly and brush off my clothes, listening for predators lurking in the woods. Why didn’t Bruce wake me when he came back? Perhaps he’s still jogging, tired out and going slower. I start walking up the path to catch him on his return. After several minutes it occurs to me he may have assumed I went home for dinner, took a different route home, and is now waiting for me at the cabin.

            I’m about to turn back when I become keenly aware of something at the edge of the path. I can’t see it well in the weeds, but it’s breathing and alive. Fear restrains me from investigating further, but then I realize it’s Bruce.

            I hurry over to his figure kneeling on the ground, his back hunched and head bowed.

            “Hey. Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay.” He flinches as I take his hand. “You’re fine, just breathe, please. Do you- do you need me to leave?”

            He shakes his head firmly and grinds his teeth. Waves of rage and violence pummel me, instinct urging me to get away before I become infected.

            After a moment he lets go and takes a few deep breaths. “I’m- I’m sorry.”

            “No, it’s fine.” I swallow and wipe my palm on my jeans. “You’re okay though, right? How often does this happen?”

            “This? This doesn’t…happen often. I don’t usually gain the upper hand…like that.” He remains knelt for another minute as his heart rate steadies. Then he takes my hand again. “Thank you.”

            There are beads of sweat on his brow, and I am severely tempted to wipe them away, and hold him, and tell him everything.


	29. Chapter 29

            Every morning when I wake up my head swims, followed by a gnawing hunger, and an ache. Lead weights on every limb, and my lungs filled with dead air. I comb my hair, splash my face, and try not to sink to the floor. My knees will drop me if I’m not alert.

            I set water on to boil. Today is unusually cold. There’s even a very light frost on the front steps. I cross my arms and lean against the table watching Bruce while he sleeps. The impression of him still lingers from a few nights ago when I interrupted his transformation. If that’s indeed what that was.

            The water boils and I tap dead leaves over its turbulent surface. The bed creaks gently. Bruce rubs his eyes, toes curling when they touch the cold floor. I’m not doing this right.

            Plastic smile as I butter the bread. He relaxes at the table with the steam clouding around his nostrils. I wipe butter off my thumb with a damp rag.

            “Oh, did you want jam?”

            He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. Thank you.”

            I put the buttered bread and the jam on the table both. My tea tastes like hot water. I could use a hot bath, submerge myself in it, clear past my nose, no part of me above in the frigid air. He asks me about the weather. I left the curtains closed.

            “Clear,” I say. “Light frost. Nothing spectacular.”

            He nods, hardly aware of the individual words. “Were you going to cook that pork today?”

            I look away from the window. “Yeah.”

            He watches me out of the corner of his eye as I get up. “You don’t have to- I was just asking.”

            “I was going to cook it today,” I insist, getting the canned meat down from the shelf.

            The mug clinks against the plate. “Thank you.”

            “Don’t mention it.”

 

            I close the door carefully behind me. The cabin is tidy; my things are bundled up and out of the way. Perhaps he’ll find a use for them. I left dinner to simmer in the pot. Maybe he’ll be back before it cools off. A ghost of an owl glides over my head, and my skin stings as I walk barefoot. I keep walking. Should I have left a note? That would use up paper, and he doesn’t have much. Keep walking.

            Everything is still at this hour, when night creatures are settling down to sleep and day creatures have yet to arise. I forgot about nature’s lull period. Even dusk is speckled with bats and mosquitoes, but pre-dawn is a time when nothing is noticed and no one is there to notice it. There’s a drunkenness that accompanies this early morning dreamtime when thoughts stagger and memories slur. I haven’t a plausible clue where I’m going, but everything else, my legs, my shoulders, my heart, knows the way. I go over the list again, and as it always does, it comes down to just two people. Yet even they don’t need me.

            I smell the lake long before I reach it. Pine needles sink underfoot in the moist earth as more brush my face and clothes leaving brisk, sappy scratches behind them. There are a number of lakes and reservoirs in these mountains. This one is over three miles away from the cabin in the opposite direction of Bruce’s morning hike. The sun, still struggling on the other side of the mountain, hasn’t yet ousted the light fog nestled over the waters.

            When I first saw Bruce, standing outside that ramshackle little cabin, he reminded me of the friend I’d run away with when I was twelve, whose people had taken me in even though they didn’t want me. We grew up together- or rather he did the growing while I barely inched along. When we eventually ran from the political upheaval of his world, he was past forty. After changing our names and getting as far off the grid as possible, we settled down to wait it out. He fared better. He also died first.

            I can’t do that again, and there’s no way in hell I’m watching Bruce grow old too. Five years ago I stood looking over Alkali with every intention of walking out to the middle until it swallowed me up. But I was too busy listening to the growling of my stomach, and to the earthly stranger who thought he knew me. They won’t see it right away, but this is a good thing. Logan won’t have to carry me around, the X-Men won’t have to shelter me, Matt won’t ever know what I’m capable of, and Tony won’t even remember me. Three weeks is eternity for him, so that’s probably already accomplished.

            These stones are like marbles under my feet, some rolling me towards the edge of the water and some away. _Is this right?_ I wouldn’t want a monster like me roaming the streets, would you? _Ethically, though._ I killed five men in cold blood, what do I know about ethics? _Is this you?_ I am tired, I am ancient, my head is saturated with memories I can’t blot out. I wore myself thin, lost _,_ and now I just want to sleep. I don’t know who else you want me to be, but I’ve been enough people. I just want sleep.

            When I found Bruce on the edge of the path and took his hand in mine, he squeezed so tight I thought my bones might shatter. Just as I thought I’d fought the last wave of anger, this cold memory of Bruce’s absorbed me. He was standing in ice, surrounded by it. Futile, desperate, and weeping, he pulled a handgun out of his coat. It lay obscenely in his hand for several seconds, until he raised it to his lips.

            My bare foot slips beneath the surface of the freezing water, so I follow it. Slowly, perhaps waiting for a compelling objection, I follow the ripples out toward the center, the mud and pebbles squelching and clinging between my numbed toes, trying to hold me down.

            I am so damn tired.

* * *

             The valley shudders before he crashes through the tree line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Part One


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two

            Bruised grass recoils as I cough up lake water. _Oh good, idiot, you’re alive._

            There’s a breezy huff and a grumble behind me. I growl in return and release my claws. Whoa, dizzy-

            Jumping to my feet, I turn so fast I fall backwards followed by a ripping sound from my soaked flannel. Air can’t fill my lungs fast enough now, brain temporarily off duty as every nerve in my body restarts with a sudden fervor. “Bruce?”

            The creature stands with an ape-like hunch, glowering down at me beneath thick brows. He huffs again, irritated, and swats the air over my head. Stupidly, I duck, the giant roars, and animal instinct flushes my system. Standing my full height, I rise up on tiptoes, clench my jaw, swell out my chest- and cough anew, falling to my knees. Who am I kidding?

            The adrenaline subsides and I remain knelt here, a ridiculous mess of trembling limbs. The creature gives a drawn out sigh and kneels too, bored. He plows up a fistful of dirt and weeds with his fingers- each about the width of my forearm. Squeezing it in his fist, he gives a low growl before letting it stream through his fingers as he looks off with disinterest. I might actually be dead after all.  

            My stomach is trying to rip me inside out. Covering my face, shaking, still feeling useless and now incredibly stupid, I lean forward and groan. He grumbles again, and I jolt as he touches my back. What was probably meant to be a light nudge sends me tumbling forward. My teeth are chattering uncontrollably for a dozen reasons, and I can’t find the energy to get back up. So, I lie on my face in the grass, wishing I hadn’t left the cabin this morning.

            For hours I fall in and out of consciousness as my body strives to repair the mess I’ve made. Those times when I’m awake I lie still and stare at the ground or the sky, their continued switching evidence of my unconscious movement. Once when I open my eyes I see only a wall of solid, green muscle. Gradually, the heat radiating from it lulls me back to sleep.

 

            Clouds scud by overhead. I wipe dirt off my jeans, but it just smears. Bruce is coming to I think. I woke to find him back to normal, though sweating and shivering, and put my mostly dry flannel over him, warm from the sun. The cabin’s visible from here. He must’ve been carrying me home.

            We make it back somehow. Telekinesis opens the door, and I bear his weight as I lead him to the bed. I dress outside, peeling away ruined layers and throwing them in the burn pile. I make plenty of noise, so he knows I haven’t left.

            Fatigued, I sit down on the edge of the porch, hoping I haven’t completely and utterly screwed everything up. He takes his time, I can hear him waiting, thinking. When he comes out I know he’s weak- the transformation must play hell on him. Uncomfortably, he sits downs next to me. His hand shivers when he places it on my wrist. I flinch, but there’s no emotional transference. Maybe we’re just feeling the same things right now.   

            “Look,” I keep my attention focused on a small mammal three acres away, “I know you didn’t believe me when I said how old I was. I just want you to know that I wasn’t lying, that I’ve been more honest with you than with anybody.”

            “I didn’t think you were lying.”

            “Really?”

            “You just saw me as a giant, green guy. What can’t I believe?”

            “I just…feel so stupid about all of this.”

            “Feeling futile isn’t stupid.”

            “No, I mean, stupid that I thought it would work…oh god.”

            “Have you tried before?”

            “No. Almost, once.” It might’ve worked then, I didn’t have the healing factor. At the moment I have a mild headache and hunger pangs, but otherwise. “Please understand, I didn’t do this because of you. I- you’re a great guy, Bruce. But there’s something…ugly about me. I, I’m still new to this whole not dying thing. I thought I could live with myself, but then this nasty part of me rose up and…”

            “You wanted to kill it,” he says.

            “Please don’t hate me. You have every right, but please.”

            “Ace,” he clears his throat and his voice starts out weak, “I haven’t been the same since Harlem, haven’t…seen myself in the same way. You being here has given me the strength to stay in control. I know I’ve slipped a couple times, but you’ve been a crucial element all the times I didn’t. Thank you.” He gives my wrist a squeeze.

            “I’ve been so selfish.”

            “That’s normal.” He smiles. “No, really, that’s…Ace, you’re going to be okay. I once thought that if I was gone everyone would be better off. That was a lie. Stop calling yourself stupid, you’re not worse than me, Ace. Neither of us is worse.” He looks where I’m looking, but the animal has since left. “Do you really have no one to go home to?”

            I nod my head. “I do.”

            “If there’s anyone you can talk to, please talk to them like this.” He’s thinking of Betty again, warm, melancholy feelings as he compares the two of us in his head. “You’re a lot braver than I am.”

            Ace coughs over her shoulder as she zips up her pack. “Just, trust me. I’ll write as soon as I get there.”

            “I shouldn’t be letting you do this.” He looks askance at the open door. “It isn’t safe.”

            “Bruce,” she shrugs on her pack, “I _promise_ I’m going to be okay. I’ve proved I can’t kill myself, what more do you need?”

            He interlocks his fingers and sucks on his lower lip. “Write to me _often._ It’ll give me something to do.”

            “Okay, I’ll write you. And I’ll send extra paper.”

            He smiles quietly. “You sure you don’t need me to walk you?”

            “I know the way home from here,” she says with meaning. “You’ll get your letter soon. Hey, you know I can visit, right?”

            He shrugs. “I don’t stay in one place very long, sorry.”

            “Well, you’ll be here tomorrow, won’t you? I can bring you supplies.”

            “You just focus on taking care of yourself. I’ve got what I need for now.”

            “Well, alright. Just let me know? Bye.” She disappears.

            He waits. “Are you still here?”

            There’s no reply. Minutes pass before he realizes with a sinking feeling that he’s alone once more.

            Strange coming back to see that everything is exactly the same, yet simultaneously foreign. After long trips I become an amnesiac knowing in my gut that this place is familiar, but not recognizing a thing. It isn’t until the smell washes over me as I swing the front door open that I remember what home is. Logan’s already waiting to greet me, sent by the Professor no doubt.

            Hands in his jeans pockets, semi-grin, eyebrow arched. “You came in through an actual door this time?”

             The force of my hug sends him back a step. I’m about to burst, but saying too much will exhaust me and saying too little won’t help at all. Quick, and sufficient or else.

             “I love you.”

 

            Both his arms are clamped about me because I did this to him- regret, guilt. I don’t want him to feel guilt.

            “I’m sorry I blamed you for Vince leaving.” I sniffle into his shirt.

            He kisses my hair. “It’s okay, darlin’.”

            The guilt persists.

            Mild sobs still shake me, aftershocks. Logan’s hand squeezes mine tightly. Safe. I let go of my breath, my fear, my reserve, and fold into him. Logan is safe.

            For nearly an hour I overflowed while he said nothing. He wasn’t disappointed, alarmed, or angered by all I said, even the parts that involved him. When I’d finally purged it all and dredged up the last, he waited in case there was more. But I still couldn’t bring myself to tell him about Brown.

            Logan rubs his eyes, one arm still around me. “You’re not a bad person. You’re not. You’re not a monster, or a freak, or anything like that. You’re always so sure of yourself. Tell me these things from now on. I need to work on sticking around, I know, but I _will always_ listen. I promise.”

            I clutch his sleeve as he takes me in both arms again. He honestly believes I could’ve died. Could I?

            Soon after our talk, Xavier knocks at my door. He waits until I’ve closed it behind him to ask. “How are you?”

            I straighten out my shirt hem and remember what Bruce told me about getting help. “Um…strange. I still…still feel the same, but…better. I still feel…empty, except now it’s, it’s the kind of empty that can be filled? I don’t know.”

            “I understand,” he assures. Xavier then takes my hand in his- pain, empathy, and more regret. We’ve never done this before I’ve always done my best to stay out of his thoughts and emotions, but this is…

            “You are irreplaceable, Ace.”

 

            _Look who’s back from the dead._

            I wasn’t even sure I should bother him again. _Unfortunately. At least yours wasn’t the first face I saw, that would’ve been tragic._

 _Like being insulted by a kitten,_ Tony writes. _What’ve you been up to lately, breaking and entering some other rich guy’s house?_

            _Why, have you finished destroying yours?_

            _I’m sorry I can’t hear you over the sound of my awesome robot suit._

            Is it possible I’m winning this soon? _Can your robot suit turn invisible yet?_

            _Can yours?_

            I’m not sure if my laughter turned into tears or the other way around. _I hear you’re buying up Manhattan._

            _The whole island is mine. All of it._

            _And for what nefarious purpose might I ask?_

_Pepper’s threatening to take my phone away #ihatemeetings. Next Thurs come over._

            _Ugh, fine._ I can’t get this smile off my face the whole time we’re writing.

            Static electricity zips and snaps as I pull this awful old shirt over my head. _And these jeans stopped fitting a year ago._ Excited strands of hair cling to my shoulders and face, blissfully unaware of the rubber-gripped scissors waiting in the bathroom. When the deed is done and wet locks lie murdered on the tile floor, and there’s a grocery bag filled with clothes I never want to see again waiting in the corner by the door, I feel an extraordinary lightness.

            The minute I step into the kitchen, Logan huffs. “What happened?”

            “I will kick you.”

            He tugs the ends of my hair, “Did you go at it with a chainsaw?” then starts rummaging in a drawer for scissors.

            Later when I run my fingers through my cool hair I am delighted to run out of length. It’s never been this short in my life. I drape it over my shoulder and it holds for a moment, before slipping back off.

            “It’s not too short, is it?” Logan hesitates as he cleans up. I shake my head, then shake it twice more just for the feeling. He snorts. “Dope.”

                                   

            I never realized how uncomfortable these chairs are. I cross my legs, uncross them, then lean forward and clasp my hands. “I need a job.”

            Xavier doesn’t look surprised. “What kind of job?”

            “Any.”

            “I’ll pay you to tutor. Wednesdays, in the library.”

            He already has it all worked out. I’m actually a little annoyed. “There’s an empty room in the stables.”

            “Indeed, for the groomsman we don’t keep.”

            I chew on my lower lip and raise one eyebrow at him.

            “It is rather…uncharitable.”

            “Is that a yes?”

            “If you think you can put the work into it.”

            “I can clean stables too.”

            “I can get students to do that for _free_.”

            We share a cruel chuckle.

            “Well, whatever’s needed, that’s what I’ll be.” I sit upright, hands on my knees. “Throw room and meals into my pay.”

            “You’ll get paid the amount you deserve and no less.”

            “I should be paying rent, you don’t have to pay me at all.”

            “You won’t want to be here forever.” He states. “Consider this startup capital for when you finally tire of us.”

 

            “Where do you want this?” Logan holds up my old stereo.

            I point to the bulky dresser crammed between my bed and the door. We’ve spent the week cleaning the room in the stables and finding bargain furniture to fill it with. I washed the walls and fixtures in the little adjoining bathroom, installed a mirror over the sink, built some shelves, the whole deal. Logan and I treated the wood flooring making it shine again, and other members of the house have contributed time and effort into helping out as well.

            “Needs a fresh coat of paint.” Logan comments.

            I lift a box onto the bed. “Should’ve said something sooner.”    

            With a grunt, he steps into the bathroom to scratch at the peeling paint on the doorframe. “You’re gonna get sick of this getting all over everything.”

            “You wanna move all the furniture back out and go into town to look at swatches? Didn’t think so.”

            Drawers and shelves fill fast, and while there’s no closet I put up pegs by the door. The only window is over the twin bed, and its view of the lawn is mostly obscured by a flowering bush. Everything smells like hay, saddle soap, and antiseptic, but the door to the bathroom locks, it’s cool in the summer, and my closest neighbors are the old horses who occasionally heckle me for treats.        

            “You’re gonna freeze to death in the winter,” Logan states later as we’re watching TV in the staff lounge.

            “I’ll get a space heater.” I head butt his shoulder.

            He puts an arm around me. “Have you talked to Sonus?”

            “I texted him, why?”

            “He called near every day asking where you were.”

           

            “I called like twice. I can’t believe you ditched me to go do whatever it is you did. What did you do?”

            The hollow clunk of our footsteps on the boardwalk contrasts with the shushing of the distant surf. “I was busy, okay? Got some fresh air, just, not by the ocean.”

            “You smoked pot.”

            “What? No.” I look sideways at him. “Did you smoke pot?”

            “Yes,” he states bluntly.

            “Oh, Matt.”

            “Don’t ‘Oh, Matt’ me. You’re worse than my mom.” He ducks a low-hanging store shingle and takes a sip of his berry Rockstar. Smacking his lips, he inspects the hot pink can. “Does this make me look feminine?”

            I roll my eyes. “You seem like you’ve done okay without me. Except for the pot, drunkenness, and one-night stands.”

            He elbows me. “Hey, what’s with that Stark thing?”

            “What Stark thing?” I ask, thinking of all the ways my other kid could’ve gotten into trouble while I was gone.

            “Jake’s little brother says you know Tony Stark.”

            “So do you, you’ve mentioned him being at your house before.”

            “Not my house,” he throws the empty drink at a garbage can, nearly missing as he follows a pair of tan legs with his eyes, “it was some benefit or other.”

            “Yeah, I accidentally on purpose ran into him, called him names, and he donated a million dollars to the school.”

            “Are you telling me you seduced Iron Man into paying the school? You’re freaking me out, Ace, did you really do that?”

            “Amy.” I eye some tourists.

            “Say what?”

            “In public, call me Amy.”

            “Fine, _Amy_ , now answer the question.”

            “No, I did not seduce him you creepy weirdo. Ew, I don’t even- ew. No, I basically just treated him the way I treat you. Not much else happened. Oh, there was this scene where Logan came barging in and embarrassed me. But he meant well.”

            “Logan barged in where?”

            “Tony’s house.”

            “When did all of this happen?” He stares at me agape.

            “Last…well it started around Christmas, and then the Logan thing was in March.”

            “So all this was going on and you never once told me?” He attempts to tickle me, but I smack him so hard he jumps away and into a store window. Rubbing his shoulder, he looks around to make sure no one noticed. “Damn, why can’t you just tell me?”

            “Because you have a _big mouth,_ especially when you’re drunk. In fact, I regret telling you even now.”

            He puts both hands up in exaggerated submission. “So, Logan’s met him too? Wow, and I told Jake his little brother was full of it.”

            “You’re all full of it because it’s none of your business.” I take his arm and hook it in mine. “Let’s hurry up and find this place.”           

           

            I chew my nail as I sit at the desk, pen in hand. This is my third letter to Bruce, but I still haven’t heard back from him. That’s not unexpected, he doesn’t collect his mail often, but it makes it unnerving to write. I think about the previous letters, telling him about the changes I’ve made. But none of that would convince me that someone was going to be okay, none of that would help me sleep at night if I was truly worried. Not that I think Bruce lies awake at night because of me.

            Xavier asked about him, and I was embarrassed because I forgot he knew. I said he was doing better than I’d imagined, and that he was going to make it. My wording was of interest to him, but he declined to say anything. Yet, somehow saying it out loud like that convinced me.

            Rain drums on the roof, and I wish I was in Bella Coola again. The pen presses into the page. _I promised I’d be okay. Keep holding me to that promise._

 

            I can do this.

            Matt’s standing on the stone steps of the park with his phone in one ear and his finger in the other. Evening rush hour surrounds the plot, thick and nervous. It’s been a good day and I’m feeling kidlike, so I skip down the path momentarily not giving a crap what anyone thinks. Matt’s brows furrow as he listens, doubtless arguing with his mom. I stop a few feet away to avoid crowding him, but still he glances up in consternation.

            “Hey, hang on she’s here.” Apprehensively, he holds out the phone. “It’s Vince.”


	31. Chapter 31

            “Are you kidding me?”

            “Just,” Matt closes his eyes, “take the phone.”

            This is too surreal. “Hey?”

            “Ace,” replies an unsteady stranger, “I need you to come get me. I don’t care who you send, just come get me.”

            I lock eyes with Matt. “Call the school, get the Professor.”

            He hops backward to comply then stands there looking confused and lost without his phone. I dig mine out of my pocket and thrust it at him. “Vin, tell me where you are.”

                         

            “Any idea what kind of trouble he’s in,” Matt and I exchange phones again, “does he need bail?”

            “No he’s not in that kind of trouble…that I know of.”   

            Matt gives my shoulder a squeeze and kisses me on the cheek. “Good luck.”

            Teleporting to the mansion, I check Xavier’s study to see if he’s there, then hurry downstairs to the lower chambers. Vince implied rather than stated that he was being followed, so I can expect Xavier to see that as a job for the team.

            When I get there, Scott and Storm are suited up, but Logan is in plainclothes and visibly impatient.

            “You want to send backup send it,” he barks, “but stay outta sight.”

            Storm nods. “We’ll be in range.”

            Logan sets off at a brisk pace as the other two head to the hangar bay. He catches me out of the corner of his eye. “What’re you doing?”

            “I’m coming wi-”

            “Like hell you are.”

            “I can track too we’ll cover more ground-”

            He swears flatly under his breath. “You are sticking with me, but this isn’t the Danger Room.”

            “I wasn’t comparing the two at all.” As though the Danger Room were anything more than a preschool sandbox to me.

            “You are also going to stifle the backtalk while we’re at it, got it?” he snaps.

            I seal my lips and glare. _I can jump us there, it will take less time and-_

“You can’t talk in my head either. I’ve already got enough of that going on, don’t need it from you too. And hell no, teleporting makes me sick. You don’t even know where-”

            I grab his wrist and visualize our destination.

           

            Vincent has switched hiding places twice since Xavier initially located him. We’re scouring an old borough of his, tracking him through alleyways and condemned buildings. All surfaces are wallpapered with graffiti and soot, and Logan and I are barely able to breathe through the stench. It makes me think Vince was intentionally covering his scent.

            We’re exiting the mouth of an alley when Logan grips my arm and I follow his gaze up the street. A guy with a tattoo down the side of his face, bent up fingernails, and dappled silver skin, is taking long whiffs of air as he examines a derelict storefront we just visited. Logan swears, and we pick up speed.

            Dust sifts down from the stairs of the abandoned building as Logan climbs them. “Careful.”

            I look up. “Someone’s on the fourth floor.”

            The landing trembles as I hurry over it, muffling the sound like Matt would. There are five flats on this floor, or six unless that’s a broom closet. God, I’m confused, elated because it is Vincent’s scent and he’s here, but mentally he’s _everywhere._ “Where did you learn that?”

            “What? Where is he?”

            I close my eyes and walk, listening. There’s nothing.

            “Are you still muting?”

            I stop and instantly we can both hear a heartbeat in the apartment farthest from the stairs. Small, one room, one window leading to the fire escape. The ground is carpeted with debris, the floor above having fallen through some time ago. I step around the worst of it, heading for the closet. He’ll be at the far end, nearest the window. Armed? Possibly.

            Now I can find his mind. It’s no longer jumping around, and the room practically echoes with fear. Logan was following me, but he stops at the door when he hears a sound.

            _Vinny,_ I say. _It’s me._

            He’s startled. I imagine him frozen, like a mouse before it’s caught.   

            I crouch down quietly by the door. “It’s just me.”

            Carefully I put my fingers in the notch and slide it open.           

* * *

 

            At first he thought it was a trick. There was no way she would come for him. He didn’t even believe that was her on the phone. It didn’t sound like her, more like someone pretending to be her. Then he thought this was Mystique who opened the closet, and nearly shouted at her for copying Ace’s face.

            Her eyes were scared, shocked. She yanked him roughly off the floor, but it all felt like the slow motion of a dream. Then everything sped up.

            Locura comes in through the window at the same time as Cain comes in through the door. Vince hadn’t distinguished Logan until now as he unsheathes his claws. Logan shouts at Ace, but Locura’s already been blown back at the window, followed by a very audible crack as she smashes against the wooden frame before falling out and onto the fire escape. The claws swing too close to Vince as Logan spreads his arms wide, causing Vince to jump back. Ace is in a fistfight with Janus, who must’ve dropped through the hole in the ceiling, and she bares her teeth as metal coats her hands.

            _Snakt._ Logan reaches back and grabs Vince by his jacket, bracing his shoulders as he shields him. “Ace, _now._ ”

            Janus’ limp body hits the floor as Ace runs to him, wraps her arms around him-

            The lights of the underground hallway are blinding.

            “Jean,” she shouts, still holding him. Then she pushes him at the doctor before vanishing.

* * *

 

The two-faced guy isn’t dead, and neither is the girl, though she should’ve moved by now. When I get back, Logan is out on the landing with the silver guy who is still somehow holding him off. I _shove_ the mutant down the stairs as hard as I can. Even Logan staggers.

            When we get back Logan doesn’t let go of me. I want to see Vince, I want to make sure he’s okay, and I want it now because something might happen to him in the next five seconds. But Logan won’t let go.

            “Take a breather, kid.”

            “Let go.”

            “Relax-”

            “I said _let go_.”

            He does this time, and I’m in the infirmary before he can stop me. Vince, pale, is sitting on the gurney as Jean very calmly checks him over.

            “Now, take a deep breath.”

            Even I hear his heartbeat racing. He stares at her sleeve. He won’t look up. He won’t look anywhere but at her sleeve like it’s the most important thing in the whole damn universe.

            Logan pulls me out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've posted one-shots from this fic including one involving the Doctor. Go read it!


	32. Chapter 32

            He’s changed so much. Somebody gave him a real haircut, and it makes his head seem narrower, adding a couple years. His jaw line and cheekbones seem a little sharper, brows lower and denser, and there are dark bags under his eyes.

            As soon as Jean finished her checkup, he showered and went to bed. I expected him to sleep well into the morning, but he was up before I was. Then he spent the whole day in Xavier’s office, and I didn’t see him until dinner when he and Logan were deep in conversation.

            Sunday morning I’m the first person to enter the staff dining room, not wanting to be asleep while he might be awake. My heart is in my throat like I’m about to speak in front of a crowd. When he enters through the opposite door, we make eye contact and he tries discreetly to back out again.

            “Wait,” I step forward and shut the door as I embrace him. After a second he stiffly places his hands above my waist, barely touching me. Any moment now he’ll push away and that will be the end of it.

            I’m not sure how many minutes the clock has measured. My stomach flip-flops, and there’s a lump in my throat as I disengage from him completely and step back. He’s free to run now.

* * *

 

Yesterday morning when he woke up in a strange room, he panicked. Then he realized it was much worse than that.

            It’s still taking a lot to believe he’s really here, or that this is really her. The hair that once fell past her waist is gone, her lips seem fuller and skin brighter. When she holds him he doesn’t feel like he used to, no racing heartbeat or sweating palms. He’d asked her to send someone so she’d know she didn’t have to come. Maybe she felt obligated. But why is she still talking to him? _Get away from me,_ he half hopes she’ll hear. _You don’t want what I’ve got._

* * *

 

We stare at each other. The longer he doesn’t respond, the more words I feel building up behind my lips. “I missed you.” Was that insipid?

            He gives a short, almost exhausted breath. “I missed you too.”

            Dead air. The coffee maker bubbles and gulps on the counter beside us. “I’m sorry I was such a creep.”

            He vaguely lifts his head to observe me. “You don’t need to apologize for anything.”

            His voice has grown deeper. “I’m still sorry.” I hear footfalls on the stairs. “Can we start over? I mean, to where we were before the fight.”

            He shakes his head and my heart plummets.

            “Let’s just start over,” he says while looking me in the eye.

            “I’d like that.”

            He bites his lip. “I um…I have, a meeting, with Xavier.”

            “Can I see you at lunch then?”

            “Dinner. I’ll-” He tugs at his fraying shirt cuffs. “We can talk at dinner.”

            The door opens and we quickly turn away.                 

* * *

 

            That wasn’t horrible. Sitting in front of Xavier was excruciating, but Vincent forgot how immensely patient he could be. He’d forgotten a lot of things.

            Logan’s a little rougher, but far less terrifying. “You realize she blames herself.”

            Vince lowers his glass. “I figured that out, thanks.”

            Logan grits his teeth. It would be nice not to hate this kid. “How’s the head?”

            Vince is startled. “Good, fine.”

            “You talk to her yet?”

            He swallows. “Dinner. I said I’d see her at dinner.”

            “So you talked this morning?”

            Vince nods and reaches for the salt. Logan hands it to him. “How’d that go?”

            “She said she wants to start over…She’s different. What’s happened since I left?”

            Logan bites his tongue. “I’m not the one you should be asking.”

            When he looks down at his plate Vince studies him, letting Logan’s thoughts blend with his own. He can’t tell him what’s happened in her life because he himself doesn’t really know, they barely talk. Vince rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. “How’s she been otherwise?”

            “Busy.”

            Less good. “She…she leave a lot? Like, travel?”

            “Are we going to talk about Ace, or are we going to talk about you?”

            “You hate talking about me,” Vince rejoins, clenching his fork. Logan gives him a hostile look, so Vince exhales through his nose. “Fine, where were we?”

* * *

 

            It embarrasses him, but I hug Vince again just to remind myself he’s back. He smiles thinly and sits down. “How’re you?”

            “I’m okay.” Logan wasn’t too thrilled by my violence in the apartment building, but doesn’t seem to be holding it against me. “And you?”

            He shrugs. “It’s Salisbury steak.”

            “Oh right,” I smile. He finds the sauce slimy. “Other than that?”

            “I’m okay.” Half-hearted grin.

            Now that he’s here I don’t know what to say. I’d like answers, but it’s too soon to grill him. I could talk about myself, but there’s so much to leave out. “So Matt’s living in a surf shack.”

            Vince closes his eyes and smiles. “Is that as bad as it sounds?”

            “Probably. It’s owned by a relative of his moron roommate, but he hasn’t been murdered yet, so that’s good.”

            He coughs. “So, is he surfing or just getting sand in his shorts?”

            “You know, I haven’t actually witnessed any surfing, but he does have a ridiculous tan.”

            “Spray-on,” he blurts, and I laugh. “Maybe he only surfs when you aren’t looking.”

            “Well, I wasn’t really there to watch. He got a real girlfriend and I didn’t want to get involved in that again.”

            He scrapes gravy off the meat. “So what’d you do all summer?”

            I had a lie planned, one that his telepathy couldn’t find fault with. It was innocent and boring, but when I begin to tell it my face won’t cooperate. Why should he know what I did? What did he do all _year?_

            Vince glances at me, sees my reluctance, and quickly looks back at his plate.

            “Why did you decide to come back?”  

            “I just didn’t want to be there anymore.” He licks his chapped lips. “You were right, it’s all bullshit.”

            The way he says it makes me wish I wasn’t right. “I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t be,” he cuts the meat with the edge of his fork, “I had it coming.”

            I chew on my lip. “Why’d you call Matt?”

            “I’ve never called anyone else.”

            But it’s not like you didn’t know my number.

            “Logan says you’ve moved out to the stables.” Vince makes a face as he picks through the steamed vegetables. “How come? Do you take care of the horses now?”

            “Sometimes, but Xavier’s paying me to tutor.”

            “No kidding? Tutoring what?”

            “Anything, I guess. Xavier thought I could handle that.”           

            “You’re a good teacher.” Vince nods. “I can see you becoming one, you’d make a good teacher.”

            I try to picture myself as a permanent fixture of the teaching staff. “Really?”

            “Yeah.” He grins. “You should teach Danger Room.”

            “I’d traumatize them.”

            “C’mon, you couldn’t be worse than Logan, you’d be a saint.”

            We both laugh, relieving some of the tension. “Fine, if I’m a teacher, what do you see yourself as?”

            “Oh,” he rubs his cheek, “I don’t know. There hasn’t exactly been time to think about a career.” He leans forward and stares at the tabletop. “Ace…I don’t know how to explain anything. It- none of it makes sense in my head right now.”

            “You’re describing my whole life, bub.”

            “God, you must hate me.” He pushes his plate away, hardly touched.

            “I don’t hate you.” I step lightly on his toes under the table. “I never hated you. I accept your apology.”

            “I haven’t said it yet.”

            “Well then say it.”

            “No, I want to say it right.”

            “Just say the word ‘sorry,’ so I can officially forgive you.”

            “You wouldn’t know what I’m saying sorry for. I could be apologizing for-”

            “Just say it, Detmer.”

            _I’m sorry._

            Putting it into the form of a thought makes it easier on him. It makes explanation obsolete, it conveys his heartfelt honesty, and it saves time that might otherwise be spent stammering out awkward sentiments. For me it’s like being hit by a car. Taking a deep breath I look away, then leave the table.

 

            The horses snuffle at me as I drag furniture back out of my room and look around for something to scrape that old paint off with. Withdrawing as much cash as I could carry from my fake account, I let the red flags go up and walked away. Now my drawers are lined with bills, the mattress stuffed, and there’s a few grand wedged behind the bathroom sink. I get a cheap thrill seeing it all there which is probably a bad sign, but I abandoned the account and that’s what matters.  

            No. The paint lid clatters into the tray and I sit with my back to the wall. Vincent’s clearly been beating himself up for everything he said at the amusement park, and is convinced I hate him. That’s why he waited until the last minute to call for help.

            His brows rise as I approach. Wrapping my arms around him, I don’t hesitate to press my face into his shirt, just in case I do cry. “All I wanted was for you to come back. I forgave you a long time ago, I just wanted you back.”

 

            After a very long, mostly telepathic talk, we’re lying on his bed giggling over some old inside joke. His head is hanging over the edge of the mattress, and I’m resting my feet on the headboard. His hand searches for my face and messes around with it just to aggravate me. I snap my teeth to scare him off, and he quickly recoils.

            “Damn, you almost cost me a finger.”

            I smile. “What’ve you got, Detmer? You need new clothes, I can see that.”

            He huffs. “You saw what I came with.”

            “I saw what you left with too. We’ve still got your stuff around somewhere.”

            “Yeah, I got it the other night.” He says it with dry amusement. _Really thought they’d throw it away._

_I wasn’t the only one waiting for you to come back._

_I know. God, I did the asshole dance on Xavier, he didn’t deserve that._

_Is that why you’ve been talking to him so much lately?_

_Partly. I can’t believe how little time passed and yet how much I hate that kid._

_Who, you? A lot can happen in a year._ I stare at the ceiling. “What time is it?”

            He pushes off the bed and leaves to check the clock in the hall. “It’s ten to ten. I’m going to bed.”

            I breathe in. “Right. See you at breakfast? Or will you still be-?”         

            “No, we can have breakfast. I’ll see you after lunch too, if you’re not busy.”

            “Come by the stables. I need some help painting my room and you’re taller.”

            “Can’t reach the ceiling, shortie?”

            I elbow him on my way out the door, and he elbows me back.

            “Hey.” I put out my arms. He accepts the hug willingly, though not with the same eagerness he once did. “I really did miss you.”

            “I really missed you too.” He squeezes me. “And I’m sorry again.”

            “Me too.” I peck him on the cheek and let go.

 

            It’s still awkward. I want to cover the distance between us, but it’s like trying to walk a straight line after spinning in circles. We stagger and lurch, trying to meet somewhere in the middle, but keep finding it difficult to reverse the damage.

            We’re lying on the lawn in the sun, too scared to enter the other person’s head. While I try to come up with ways to engage him, I’m simultaneously shoring up new memories and fresh wounds. I roll over and rest my face on my folded arms. “Hey.”

            He raises an eyebrow. There’s barely a trace of stubble on his chin, speckling its way up the side of his face. I swear this isn’t Vince.

            “Let’s get four thousand Post-Its and coat Matt’s dorm with them for when he goes back in the fall.”

            He smiles as he groans. “You’re just trying to kill the forest aren’t you? Let’s go see a movie.”

            “Sure,” I smirk, knowing he’s having another chat with Xavier in an hour, “when?”

            “Oh, I have stuff to do today, don’t I? Tomorrow then.”

            “Sounds great.” No, tomorrow’s Thursday. I agreed to see Tony tomorrow. Is that something I should tell Vince or keep from him? “Hang on, I need to send a text.”

            Vince doesn’t inquire as to whom it’s for.

            Tony texts back. _‘How long?’ What do you have a date or something? The answer is all day, and you have to tell me his name and home address._

            I roll my eyes. “It’ll have to be an early showing, I have somewhere to be in the afternoon.”

            “Oh,” Vince says casually, “cool.”

            Staggering and lurching. “Okay. When you were gone, Tony Stark came on the news. You were so broken up when they said he was dead, that I thought of you when I saw him. I liked the things he said and…and I went to California to meet him.”

            Vince turns his head faster than I thought he might. “Why?”

            I hold up my hands and shrug. “I missed you. He reminded me of you- you know, until I actually met him.”

            Now Vince is up on one elbow. “Wait, what? You better not be lying.”

            “Yeah, I try not to make a big deal about it, but considering the fact that Son heard it on the grapevine, it was only a matter of time before someone told you too.”

            “Holy crap, how did you even- Please tell me you saw the suit.”

            “Yeah, and I drove one of his Audis.” I sit up and run my fingers through my hair, listing all the reasons this was a bad decision. “Um, we’re just friends though. I mean, he hit on me, but he was drunk and he made up for it later.”

            “Is he- I mean,” Vince sits up too and looks around, “is he actually as big a player as the tabloids say?”

            I laugh harder and longer than I should. “Oh…but he has a steady girlfriend now.”   

            “When I asked what you did all year you think you could’ve mentioned this? _You saw the suit-”_

            “Yes, we’ve got the point, I saw the suit, please stop saying it so loud.”

            “Wait, why did you start telling me this?”

            Sighing, I hold up my phone. “His place is where I have to be tomorrow. We kind of have this thing where he teaches me robotics while trying to strong arm me into going to college or working for his company.”

            “Screw the movies, _take me with you.”_ Vince is rapidly degenerating into a twelve-year-old boy with a superhero crush.

            “Are you kidding, I would never hear the end of it. When I asked how long tomorrow was going to take he immediately assumed I was going on a date, _he’s weird._ ”

            “Ace, you can’t just dangle something like that in front of me and then jerk it away again. I _need_ to see that suit.”

            “Vinny,” I employ a placating tone, “I can probably get his autograph for you, but I cannot take you to his house, that would be terrible. Alternatively, if we stop being friends because of this, I will kill him.”

            “You’d kill Tony Stark for our friendship?”

            “Honestly, I’d probably kill him for a plate of nachos, he’s a huge jerk. Oh no, he’s texting me again.”

            _Be honest,_ writes Tony, _on a scale of Irkle to Joe Jonas how cute is he?_

            “What’s he saying?” Vince moves to sit beside me, then remembers we’re aloof.

            _All I got out of that is you think Joe Jonas is cute._ I text.

            “Ace,” pleads Vince in a low, miserable tone.

            His voice is so ridiculous that I laugh, pleasing him a little. “Calm down, he’s just being an ass. But that’s okay, I annoy him almost as much as he annoys me.”

 

            “Tonytonytonytonytonytonytonytony.”

            “Oh god, it’s happening.”

            “What’re you eating, is there any more, did you eat it all?” I grab up the chip bag.

            “Hey hey, cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, forget to take your Aderol today?” Tony snatches it back. “Stop bouncing around you’ll give me a seizure.”

            “What d’you want?” I ask, making as much noise as possible.

            “For you to be neither seen nor heard. Go sit over there, G-Man is coming by for a consultation.”

            I roll my eyes. “That’s it? You know, if you want to break the law just use a tape recorder, old man.”

            “Yeah, but you’re less incriminating and more fun to sneak past him.”

            “I should start charging you per invisibility session.”

            “I’m sorry I thought flies on walls were supposed to be quiet.”

            “I’m just sayin’ if you want to undermine a man-in-black you should pay me.”

            “Fine, what are your rates?”

            “A grand an hour.”

            “You are so predictable, what are you saving up for a hamster? Why’ve you been avoiding me all summer?”

            I swear his goatee gets creepier every time I see him. “It’s summer break, I don’t get a break?”

            “Not from me you don’t.” He smiles good-naturedly. “Having a nice break?”

            “Until now.”

            He nods casually, a small grin on his face. “So who is this pimpled bag of hormones you’re going on a date with?”

            “Keep insinuating that I’m going on a date, and I tell Peps about the time you flew the suit into Loch Ness drunk so you could find the monster, but instead woke up in Central Park next to some winos camping out by the lake.”

            “God, you’re vindictive.”

            I shake my head. “When is this government agent supposed to show up, _Anthony_?”

            “He’ll be here at,” he squints at the clock and steps back airily, “four.”

            “Jerk, that’s an hour from now. I’m going home.”

            “No.” He pulls up a chair. “I haven’t seen you in forever and the first thing you do is bail on me?”

            Actually ashamed, I sit down. “Okay. Hi.”

            “Hi. How’ve you been, Hardware?”

            I hold back. “Fine.”

            “Good.” He rolls his chair across the floor. “Now, where did we leave off?” The light from the screen reflects in his wide eyes as he scrolls through source code.

            “What does SHIELD do, exactly?”

            He raises an eyebrow, but continues his work.

            “Clandestine intelligence agency?”

            He winks.

            “That’s a little cliché.” I walk over to the computer as he vacates the seat. “So they’re after Iron Man too.”

            “If you mean me, then yes. My dad was involved in starting the whole thing, so it’s rather an inherited interest. Why do you ask, Snoopy? Worried Big Brother knows about that pack of gum you stole in the seventh grade?”

            I tilt my head back and scrutinize him through narrowed eyes. “Whiskey, eighth grade.”

            He gives a silent whistle. “Liar.”

            I shrug, looking back at the coding before me. “No, it’s complicated.”

            “What’s complicated that you need SHIELD for? I’ll find out eventually-”

            “I’m not in the system,” I say plainly. “I don’t have parents, I never went to school. Except for my time at Xavier’s I don’t exist. So, I want to know where I _do_ exist and attempt to change that.”

            Tony nods slowly. “Like taking your phone off the grid.”

            “Exactly. I want to find out where I still am on the grid, if there’s a record or a person somewhere who knows who I am. I fell through the cracks when I was younger, and decided I like it that way.”

            “Wow, you’re 007 what the hell. You aren’t actually though are you? Because I’ve been burned before.”

            “Tony, just because a stripper says she’s a secret agent- You know, we’ve had this discussion unfortunately before.”

            “Well, there was no stripping- that _I_ witnessed- but I _was_ censured in Latin.”

            “Please stop talking, I don’t want to understand you.”

            He drums on the countertop. “Alright, urchin. You’re the human hacker, you pretend you aren’t, but you are.”

            “Human hacker…you want me to read his mind? I can’t do that, unlike you I respect that level of privacy-”

            “Do you like the system? This grid you’re trying so hard to get off of, do you think it’s going to give you answers if you ask politely?”

            “SHIELD _is_ the grid. I mess with that I’m finished.”

            “Ace, that’s literally why you have to, they’ve got all the secrets. You want in on that you have to brave the storm.”

            “You literally just said ‘brave the storm’.”

            “Don’t make fun of me. I’ll pull rank on you and tell you to get the hell out of my house. You laugh, but I’ll do it.”

            I elbow him and lay my head on the counter. “I’ll get you in trouble.”

            “You haven’t seen the amount of trouble I can get myself into.”

            “I know, but I don’t want it to be because of me.”

            “Don’t be so sentimental. Be willing and ready to ruffle feathers at all times. It’s not their world, it’s yours, treat it as such.”

            “And that’s why you and Pepper fight so much.”

            He flips my hair over my face. “Mind your own business.”

Sitting cross-legged under a table, I listen in on Tony’s consultation. Resting my chin in my hands I watch Coulson, making a point to avoid hearing any of his thoughts. But Tony made it sound like a SHIELD agent’s head is a bounteous mine of vital information, and it isn’t long before I give in.

            Soon I’m swimming in a conspiracy theorist’s wet dream- archives of political assassinations, agents gone rogue, and massive cover-ups. I stop hearing his words, and start feverishly rummaging through the files and files of tantalizing knowledge he has stored away. If one agent has access to all this, what else could SHIELD have their hand in? Undoubtedly they know of the facility where Logan and I originated. I destroyed a file room when I was there, but there will be records elsewhere. If SHIELD knows where that is I’m going to find it, and the girl who became me will be erased indefinitely.


	33. Chapter 33

_Water rushes over my head. I kick and thrash, but it’s pointless and I reach the bottom in seconds. Pond fronds sway before my face as I resign myself to the mud._

_There’s laughter up above. I can see the guys, Vince and Matt, joking and pushing each other around. Tony is walking ahead of them with Pepper, still in high heels even though she’s walking in dirt._

_“Take those off,” I shout, afraid she’ll fall in too._

_None of them hear me. Matt’s dressed up like he’s going somewhere fun without me, and Tony makes Pepper laugh as they sit down at a bench where he puts his arm around her._

_“Hey!” I start swimming up. “I know you can hear me, jerks!”_

_Angry, I break through the surface and swim to shore. Tony watches as I approach. “Took you long enough.”_

_Pepper leans forward. “Have you been down there this whole time?”_

_The guys walk over and sit at the edge of the water like they’d been expecting me._

_“You  ready?” asks Vince._

_“Do I look ready?”_

_Then no one is there but Logan. He reaches down to me wordlessly, so I take his hand and climb out._

            Vince and I blink at each other across the breakfast table. I rub the edge of the envelope with my thumb. “I’m sorry, say it again?”

            He clears his throat. “I applied to Westchester Community.”

            “No kidding.” My head is still filled with water. “What’re you thinking of taking?”

            “Just general ed.,” he says nonchalantly. “Get it out of the way.”

            I rub my eyes. “You plan on going somewhere after that?”

            He shrugs. “It’s possible.”

            “Do you need help paying for classes?”

            Vince shakes his head tiredly. “Xavier and I have been working on financial aid. Plus,” he tugs on the front of his janitor uniform.

            “Oh, right.” I smile. “You look authoritative.”

            He chuckles. “Hey, you should apply too. We can take classes together.”

            A low grumble elsewhere in the room gives me an excuse not to answer. Scott rises from his seat with a sigh and pours his coffee out in the sink, while Logan staunchly guzzles the last of his. As both head for the door Logan winks in our direction. Vince swallows and clenches his jaw.

            “What is it?” I ask.

            He shakes his head. “I- I don’t know. I’m fine.”

            I look at the door. “It’s ridiculous, it’s the first day of school.” Magneto would know that. I look at Vince.

            He chews quietly, fork scraping against the plate as his hand trembles. “What’s in the envelope?”

            A moment ago it was burning in my hand. “Oh. Ah, a friend…wrote me. I’ve been waiting for it.”

            He nods and keeps eating. “Well, read it.”

            I flip it over to look at the address. Bruce has harried but neat handwriting. I look back at Vince. I doubt the Brotherhood takes desertion lightly. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

            He smiles halfheartedly. “I’m just praying no one throws up today.”

 

            The freshman sucks in his breath. “I got blood on the floor.”

            The skin of his arm is rough over my shoulder. “Don’t worry it’s not the first time.”

            He holds his leg at an angle so the blood runs into his sock. The elevator stresses him out when it opens. “Is it motion sensitive?”

            “No, I did it.” I lean him against the elevator wall, the doors close, and we begin to descend. “Still doing it.”

            He stares at me. “That’s cool.”

            I help him down to the nurse’s office where another kid sits miserably on a bed, face covered in welts. The kid I’m carrying jolts, but I know a mutation when I see one. Jean is nowhere to be found, still out on the mission. I’ve been working double-time as an aide today thanks to that. Once the freshman is seated in a chair I start opening cupboards. A girl walks in holding a paper cup.

            “Hey!”

            “Hey.” I find bandages. “Nurse’s out.”

            “I know, I’m the aide,” she hands the welts kid the cup and a pill. “What’re you looking for?”

            I hold up the bandages and nod at the bleeding freshman. She clicks her tongue and goes over to him. “Get some wipes instead.”

            I ignore the “instead” and bring her bandages as well. As she cleans off his leg the freshman squirms uncomfortably. Then, the aide presses her fingers around the cut. “Don’t move a lot.”

            Gradually, the lips of skin seal back up like they would with me. I raise my eyebrows. She wipes off her hand and looks hopefully at me. “Don’t tell Jean?”

 

            After school the next day, Vince and I are waiting out on the front steps. Matt’s been anxious to see him again, and arranged to drive us into the city.

            Vince cracks his knuckles against his jaw. “I’m not ready for this.”

            “It’s going to be fine. You’ve got me around.”

            “Ace, I _don’t_ want to go.”

            “Vin, it’s going to be _okay._ I know what you’re feeling, but I promise this is going to be stress free, alright? It’s just Matt, we’re just going into town for a bit, and you’ll spend most of the time in the car anyway, relax.”

            He runs both hands through his hair. “I’d hate to get you two involved. I don’t want to even be seen with you.”

            “Vinny, there’s no guarantee we’ll see _anybody_ you know.” I rub his arm. “Besides, you can’t hide in Westchester forever.”

            “They know that,” he says with discomfort. “They’ll wait.”

            The car has barely stopped running when Matt jumps out. “‘EYYY!”

            “Hey.” Vince beams, a forceful hug sending him back a step. “Good to see you.”

            “We missed you, dude.” Matt shakes him around. “What’re you doing, how’ve you been, where are your janitor duds?”

            “I’m…off for the day.” Vince looks at me with a slight grimace. _You told him?_

_I told him you were going to community and had a job._

            _Ace, he’s not an in-law, you don’t have to cover for me._

            Matt finally lets go. “Alright, everyone get in the car.”

            Summer in the city doesn’t really start until August, and with school opening in a week we’re overdue for a heat wave. Matt has the AC running full blast as we sit in agitated traffic on Park Ave. Ahead of us, what used to be the MetLife building is getting an ostentatious makeover.

            I lean my elbow against the windowsill. “Yep, gaudy as can be.”

            “Look at those lines,” admires Vince, gazing up through the windshield. “God, that’s gorgeous.”

            “Geez, the helicopter pad’s sticking right out in the open. Weather’s going to be a bitch,” comments Matt.

            “Ace,” Vince glances back at me, “look at the color of the cranes against the windows. Isn’t that awesome? I wonder who his architect is. You think he designs these things himself?”

            “Stark? That man micromanages every cosmetic detail of his life, of course he designed this.” I scrutinize the upper stories. “He’s probably up there working on it too.”

            Matt blows out a puff of air. “He can’t hire people to do that?”

            “No, he mans all those cranes himself, retard.”

            “I like it better if he’s working on it himself too instead of just telling other people to do it,” muses Vince. “It’s…honest.”

            “When he throws his housewarming party, think you can get us in?” Matt asks.

            “You and Tony in the same room? Women everywhere would curse me and you’d drink the world dry.” I watch the skyscraper as it disappears around a corner. “Besides, we’re not that kind of friends.”      

            Lately, Pepper spends most of her time at the company offices or on business trips, while Tony putters around in his suit committing international vigilantism. But when she is around, Pepper and I usually have a minute or two to chat. She pours me a coffee and asks how I’ve been, listening attentively to my reply, and I in turn babysit her kid.

            Two coffees in hand, I shoulder open the door to the workshop. “Hey, D. Hey, U,” I greet the robots, setting down the coffee. “Hey, dorkwad.” 

            Tony groans quietly as he tries to type with goggles and giant welding gloves on. “Last person I wanted to see. G-man’s not coming today.”

            “Liar, you just don’t want to pay me.”

            “You really are after my money.”

            “I’m after your charming personality, don’t be ridiculous. By the way, I need a picture of you, smile.”

            He makes a sarcastic face into the camera. “How’s that?”

            “You look like a steampunk walrus. That’s fine, believable.”

            “Your phone’s disconnected again.”

            “Is it? That’s weird, it’s almost like I’m not paying for it or something.”

            “How am I supposed to get in touch with you?”

            “I’ll find a way to restart it eventually. Until then just email me.” I put away my phone. “Is Coulson coming today or what?” I finally notice the suit on the work table. Fresh burn marks score the sides, and the helmet is ajar.

            “I couldn’t make it,” Tony states indifferently. “We rescheduled.”

            It bothers me more when he goes out than when the X-Men do. Occasionally one of them will be confined to the infirmary for a day, and I don’t even think twice about it. “How often do you get hurt?”

            He waves a bandaged hand at me. “Not every time. I move pretty fast.”

            Clearing my throat, I pull up my usual chair. “Well, no agent then. What should we do?”

            He turns the laptop around to face me, the SHIELD emblem glaring from the screen. “Pop quiz.”

           

            “So he teaches you how to hack? Damn.” Vince jiggles his energy drink to see if there’s any left, then sets it down. “He does look like a walrus in that pic though.”

            “We do some hardware stuff too. I took a computer apart, and then put it back together.” I was actually more comfortable burying my hands in a mesh of live wires than traversing SHIELD’s system.

            “Man, you’re lucky.” Vince shakes his head. “You’re getting a top education for free.”

            “Yeah, well my professor is a skeazy drunk who hits on underage girls sometimes, so it balances out.” I pick up the energy drink to read the label. “You put this in _your body?_ It smells like battery acid from Wonka’s factory.”

            “You know what, chill out.” He takes the can back. “You eat like a half-starved mutt, you don’t hear me complaining.”

            Great, now I can’t gnaw on that chicken bone left on my plate. “For the record, that’s only around you because I thought we were cool like that, you battery-acid-guzzling freak.”

            “Hey, who’s David?”

            David is the name Bruce went by in his letter. It was a one-liner saying he was glad to hear things were going well, and an apology for not writing sooner. “What- what reminded you of that?”

            “I saw you mail him back this morning.” He shrugs. “Why the snail mail?”

            _He prefers it._

_And you’re just staying in touch? Did you meet him traveling?_

_Sure. Why?_

_Well, we don’t really know a lot of people, and I’m kinda hoping he’s some other cool person like Tony._ Vince gives a cheesy grin. _Is_ _he mutant?_

 _David’s very private, he’d rather I not talk about him._ I pick up the chicken bone. _You_ _don’t need to know everyone I know._

 _Sorry._ He looks away in deference. _But, it’s not like I’d tell people you have a friend you write letters too._

_Well, you still haven’t told me what you told Pyro, so I really have no idea what you tell people about me._

“Are you kidding me?” He stares in disbelief. _Ace, Pyro is dead._

            I excel at leading myself into bad conversations. “Vince, I don’t care if he’s sitting right next to us, you don’t need to know things about me.” The knot in my stomach relaxes a little.

            “Look, I’m sorry if I was nosy about your friend, but,” he looks over his shoulder briefly, “are you going to bring _that_ up every time we fight? I have no affiliation with those people anymore, Ace, it’s over.”

            _Good._ I lean back and dig my claws into the tabletop. _Because you got nasty with me the second I tried to stop you. You called me ‘needy’ then you abandoned me. I’ve forgiven you, but am also prepared for the next time you find something you value more than my friendship._

Cheeks flushed, mouth tight, and eyes glossy, he grips his elbows and continues staring at me. _Ace,_ _believe me when I say- again- that I’m sorry. I should never have hurt you like that. It’s idiotic to think I can get you to trust me now, but please, just let me try._

Statements in the present, no matter how heartfelt, can mean nothing in the future. The hairs rise on the back of my neck, and I decide I don’t want him this close to me right now. Picking up my dishes, I head for the kitchen without another word.

           

            A cold beer is heaven in this weather. Logan fans me with a magazine before batting the back of my head. “At least he’s trying.”

            “Hey, I’m trying too, for a lot of things.” Depression and anxiety continue to bite at my ankles and whisper in my ear. I left at-risk Bruce alone in the middle of nowhere. There’s still a good layer of murderer’s guilt to claw through, and to top it all off I’ve begun a tightrope walk with SHIELD. “I’ve got too much on my plate right now.”

            “So tell him that.”

            “No.”

            “Well, do you want to keep him around or not? He’s been apologizing for three weeks, how about you cut him some slack?”

            There is never enough beer in one bottle. “I don’t trust him, Logan.”

            “I know that. But you have more going for you than he does at this point, so I suggest you stop holding it over him and start helping him up. That’s what a friend would do. _Are_ you still his friend?”

            “God, Logan.” I get up from the table. “Why are you suddenly on _his_ side?”

            “I’m on your side.” He gets himself another beer. “You just never seem to recognize it.”

 

            Vince is taking a shower when I go looking for him. When the water is done running and he’s had enough time to change, I knock on the door. He opens it just wide enough to lean on the jamb. “What?”

            Looking at him it’s hard to remember what he looked like when I met him. How old was he then, fifteen? “Are we still friends?”

            “Do you want to be?” he asks flatly.

            “I want to try,” I answer. “We said we’d start over, and I’d still like to try that.”

            He sighs through his nose. “C’mere.”

            I step forward quickly into his hug.

            “You are not needy,” he says, pressing his cheek to my head. “I was angry and stupid when I said those things, they aren’t true.”

            I swallow. “You aren’t the things I said about you either.” Man, it’s nice hugging him. Vince is closer to my height than Matt is, and while Matt hugs make you feel like he could be hugging anybody, Vince’s embrace is more personal. He uses just enough grip to make you feel like he means it without crushing you. “You smell all clean.”

            “And you smell like a drunk horse.”

            “Classy, Vin.” I step back again, knowing I deserved that. “Some of the staff are out on the back terrace having lemonade. Come with?”

            He nods and starts searching for his shoes.

            Fireflies blink around the tables in the growing dusk. No lemonade left when we get there, but an oscillating fan provides some comfort. I prop my feet up on an empty chair as Vince teases the flame of a citronella candle. 

            “My friend is very withdrawn,” I say. “I promised for his sake that I wouldn’t give him away.”

            “Plus, you have a crush on him.”

            “I- Where are you getting that from?”

            Vince shrugs. “You got really defensive about him, he must be special.”

            I brush my hair out of my face, and Vince smiles broadly. He’s about to say more when someone taps my shoulder.

            “Oh, hey.” I take my feet off the chair. “Vin, this is Jean’s intern that I told you about. I’m sorry, I never got your name.”

            “Call me Madge,” she laughs as she takes my offer to sit down. “Nice to meet you.”

            Vince shakes her hand as she offers it.

            “I was just telling her about Matt’s thing this weekend,” I say.

            Vince shrugs. “It’s just a little indie gig, they’re not that big.”

            “That’s perfect.” Madge bobs her head. “Big crowds make me claustrophobic.”

            “She’s going to ride with us, and we’ll probably go to dinner at some point, so it’ll be a nice night.” I smile at Madge. “So, what do you like to do other than go to concerts?”

            Madge scoots her chair in. “Oh, I’m not exactly a regular concert attendee. I’m a huge introvert, so I’d rather read a book than, you know, socialize.”

            “Thank you,” I high-five her. “That’s how I spent my first semester here.”

            “She has the library memorized,” Vince unhelpfully informs her.

            “Hush, you.” I prop my feet on his chair and he pinches my ankle.

            Madge just giggles with the nervous reserve of someone who wants to fit in without pushing her luck. “So, do you guys go to concerts often?”

            We both shake our heads.

            “I try not to go to concerts with Matt because he tends to ditch me for somebody cute in the first five minutes,” I explain. “But now we’ve got the three of us in case he decides to bail.”

            “I guess, uh, the cute person ditched him this time, huh?” she carefully jokes. Matt’s date cancelled, so Madge got the extra ticket.

            “Yeah,” Vince scrunches up his face, “he’s better at finding them than actually keeping them.”

            “But he’s a really cool person,” I add quickly. “We just make him sound bad.”

            “No he’s an ass,” Vince nods, “but we keep him around.”

            “Well, she’s new, Vin, I thought we could at least give her an optimistic view.”

            “Don’t worry,” Madge waves her hand, “I’m sure he’s nice.”

            We chat until an hour to curfew and Madge, being a student, has to leave.

            “Goodnight,” says Vince as she disappears into the house. “She’s a nice kid.”

            That’s uncharacteristic of him, but I can tell he means it. “Yeah, she is.”

            “I still don’t want to go anywhere.”

            I sigh. “Do brethren hang out in Manhattan often?”

            “If they’ve got something to do there, yeah.”

            “Vin, it’s going to be fine. We’ll have those two with us,” meaning Matt and Madge, “and I won’t let anything happen while they’re around. You and I can hear things coming a mile away, and we’ll be surrounded by a bunch of hipsters.”

            “Are they a buffer somehow in case there’s trouble?” he jokes.

            “Yes, we can use the hipsters as distractions while we make our escape.” I nudge his leg with my foot and nod at the path leading to the stables. “Let’s go talk somewhere else.”

           

            I collapse on the bed, and he takes over my wheeled desk chair and rolls it around the room.

            “Don’t run over my laundry,” I warn.

            “Pick up your laundry.” A T-shirt just misses my head. “We did a good job.”

            I toss the shirt onto my desk. “Yeah, except that spot on the ceiling.”

            He looks up and I point at the corner we missed when we painted. He rolls the chair underneath it to get a better look. “Yep. Definitely missed that spot.”

            I get out of bed and start picking my laundry up off the floor. “How did you do that?”

            “What?” He looks down at the wheels of the chair then laughs in embarrassment. “Ugh, get it off.”

            “You couldn’t at least avoid running over my bra, you big dumb male? Move it.”

            “Your room looks like Matt’s used to,” he says as he stands up.

            I disentangle my bra from the chair. “You take that back.”

            “I take it back.” He flops on my bed now that I’ve vacated it. “You know, it wouldn’t be half so bad if every time the X-Men went out I didn’t have to worry it was because of Brotherhood.”

            “Now you know how I felt.” I finish putting my clothes away.

            “Really?”

            “Of course.” I shove the drawer shut. “It wasn’t them earlier this week though. The X-Men have more ‘usuals’ than just Magneto’s lot.”

            “Hadn’t thought of that.” He plumps my pillow. “What’d you want to talk about?”  
            I put my chair back by my desk. “Stuff we need to get out of the way, stuff that needs to be addressed if we _are_ going to start over.” I push him to the side of the bed that’s against the wall so I can sit beside him cross-legged. “Maybe I’ll just…update you on the situation. Of me.” If you care.

            “The situation?”

            I clear my throat. “I get anxiety attacks.”

            He raises an eyebrow in question. “What’re those like?”

            “Spontaneous panic. Sometimes there’s a trigger, other times I just over-think until I lose it. I’m learning to cope, but they’re pretty unpredictable.”        

            Vince absentmindedly fiddles with his ear as he stares at the ceiling. “What should I do if that happens and I’m with you?”

            “Oh,” I don’t really know since I’ve been keeping the issue to myself, “just, try to calm me down I guess.”

            He stares hard at the ceiling. “Do you know why they started?”

            If he catches me lying now, our rocky relationship worsens. If I tell the truth, we’re done for. I bite my tongue. “Working on it.”

            He doesn’t respond, but after a moment I feel him in my head. It’s nothing intrusive, he isn’t searching for a better answer. It’s merely a brush to remind me that he’s there.


	34. Chapter 34

            Vince jumps up and slaps the underside of an awning. “I can’t even remember the band’s name and that song is stuck in my head.”

            “‘I love ya like the stars, like mason jars’,” Madge and I sing raucously.

            “They did _not_ say ‘mason jars’.” Matt pushes me from behind. “That’s stupid.”

            “Well, what else rhymes?” I try to reach back and hit him, but he’s moved behind Vince.

            “So, Vince,” Madge says now that he’s closer, “your major’s in mathematics?” He never told us he was majoring.

            “Well, my financial aid requires a major,” he shrugs and runs a hand through his hair, “so I just grabbed something. Do you have college plans?”

            “Nursing, and then medicine,” Madge replies smartly. “Jean’s teaching me the ropes so I can write it on my application.”

            “College is a racket,” Matt proclaims. “The end result is you’re still working at McDonald’s, but now with a degree in crippling debt.”

            “A Larson working at McDonald’s?” Vince asks sarcastically. “Say it isn’t so.”

            “You know I’m not actually rich, right?” There’s an edge to Matt’s voice. “I get nothing until I’m twenty-four, and I probably won’t even see it then either.”

            “Why, are the lawyers afraid you’ll blow it on a yacht if they give it to you too early?” I muse. “Perhaps you’ll mature.”

            “Hey, Detmer, is that you?”

            Vince freezes. The address came from one of the guys standing on the other side of the street. I realize with a rising anxiety that the sidewalk is deserted, and the car is parked another three blocks away.

            “Matt, take Madge to the car,” I say, gently pushing her forward.

            He pauses. “What about you guys-?”

            “Just do as I say.”

            Matt obeys and Madge thankfully doesn’t question it as she quickens her pace. The guys across the street converse briefly amongst themselves before one breaks off. Vince gulps, and I feel keenly his desire to melt into the shadows.

            The guy who spoke steps onto the curb. “What’re you doing out here, man?”

            Vince tries not to look at me as he clears his throat. “Oh, you know, just…skipped out for a night.”

            The guy nods, a confused smile on his face. “Pyro with you?”

            Vince goes still once more. The guy looks at me. “And you are?”

            I don’t reply. If there’s anything that scares me less than a flea, it’s small-minded thugs. The streetlight can’t reach our faces here, so I’m relying on his lack of visual information to make my silence more imposing.

            It works well enough. He turns back to Vince. “The guys n’ I are headin’ to a party in Queens. Come with us.”

            We all know there isn’t a party in Queens. Vince takes a breath, buying time.

            “We’ve already been out too long,” I say in a hard voice. “You’ll have to catch up later.”

            I take Vince by his elbow and pull him along as I begin walking.

            “You sure?” the guy calls, and I see his companions now crossing the street at an angle to cut us off. Matt and Madge are nowhere in sight.

 _That’s_ _Meech up there,_ Vince says. _He’s been trying to get recruited for months._

_They’re not Brotherhood?_

_No, just wannabes._

I eye the scrawny cretin coming up the pavement, estimating what talents he might possess. Vince stops walking and turns to face the first guy, who’s started following us. “They got tequila at this party?”

            I grip his arm as Meech disappears. _Alright, I’m jumping._

Claws scrape my arm as I push Vince and myself between two parked cars and into the street. Meech reappears with his needle claws drawn, all three men running for us. We jump.

 

            “No, really,” Madge tries to smile, “it’s okay. Stuff happens.”

            “No, it’s not okay,” Vince wouldn’t stop apologizing the whole ride home. “That shouldn’t have happened, and I’m very sorry.”

            “It wasn’t your fault.” She touches his arm sweetly. “Anyway, thanks for inviting me.”

            “Goodnight, Madge,” I say as she waves and heads upstairs. “Well, screw making new friends.”

            “Shut up,” says Vince, tugging on his T-shirt. “I knew that was going to happen, I _knew_ it. Shit. We scared her off.”

            “It was bound to happen eventually.” I cover a yawn. “Don’t worry, I think she actually found it exciting.”

            He sighs and looks at me. “I’m sorry.”

            “Stop saying that. _You_ didn’t come over and threaten to mug us. Calm down.”

            But Vince just stands there, trying to crack his knuckles for the ninth time.

            “Vinny,” I say loudly, making him start, “go get in bed. Nobody’s scared but you.”

            He rubs his eyes. “You got everyone out so fast.”         

            “I said I would.”

            “I know, I just didn’t…didn’t know you could actually do it.” He gives me a half-hearted grin, but can’t sustain it and ends up frowning. It dawns on me that he’s always seen us the same, two scared kids who don’t know what they’re doing. With a sigh, he looks upstairs. “What are the odds he took the bed?” We couldn’t let Matt drive himself home this late, so he’s crashing in Vincent’s room.

            “I think you’ll get to know the floor tonight,” I reply, giving him a one-armed hug.

            The claw marks on my arm haven’t completely healed as Meech’s attack was poisonous. Walking down the dark path to the stables, I mordantly congratulate myself on not murdering anyone this time.

            I stop outside my door. That was only two months ago. My hand grips the doorknob until my knuckles turn white. I press my forehead against the rough wood, and try to focus on the horses’ breathing in their stalls, on the crickets in the yard, but it’s the sound of my own heartbeat slowing gradually that brings me back to Earth.

 

            Madge snaps a baby carrot between her teeth. “I don’t want you to worry about last night. I really wasn’t scared. I consider it my first real trip to the city.”

            “You don’t go there often?” I ask, teasing a beetle in the grass.

            Her eyes go wide with amusement. “No, I’ve only been there on field trips.”

            “Really?” Vince asks with a shy laugh. “Are you from upstate or…?”

            She shakes her head and makes a face. “Iowa.”

            “No kidding? I don’t know anyone who’s even been to Iowa.” Vince leans forward. “What’s it like?”

            Madge shrugs and plucks a clover. “It’s Iowa. I’ve grown up knowing the same people my whole life and they all know me. So, it’s nice to be somewhere where I’m a stranger. Plus, everyone back home thinks I’m exotic now.” She gives a smug smile.

            “Ugh, and it’s just Westchester,” smiles Vince. “We need to show you more New York. What’s there to do in Iowa?”  

            “For fun?” Madge laughs. “Hm, just boring small town stuff, I guess. Go to the library with mom, go window shopping with my sister.” She smiles self-consciously and begins making a chain of clovers. “My older brother used to be in Little League, and if the team won Dad took us all out for ice cream. We’d order this humongous sundae,” she cups her hands and spreads them about a foot apart to show magnitude, “and I always got to have the cherry-on-top before the boys started eating.”

            “I want ice cream,” declares Matt.

            “Alright then,” I pat Madge on the knee, “there’s an ice cream place in the city that makes this hot fudge monster. Matt and I have been dying to order it, but we can’t finish it between us.”

            Matt perks up. “Oh yeah, I forgot about that.”

            Vince looks at the ground, but Madge hunches her shoulders. “Ooh, that sounds dangerous. I’ll definitely help. Let’s set a date.”

            The three of us look at each other. What with all of us going to different places now and Vince and I having jobs, scheduling time to hang out has gotten more difficult. Madge places the clover crown on my shoe, and folds up the baggie her carrots were in. “I’m working on a project with some friends this weekend, but any other after-school time will work.”

            “I’m skipping my last class on Tuesday,” says Matt as he lies down in the grass and stretches. “Day after a test, nothing much happens.”

            “I’m off that day,” I say. “And Vince’s done before dinner.”

            “Hey, Madge, have you ever teleported?” Vince asks.

            “Yes, Vince, I’m sure she has.” I take the clover crown and place it on Matt’s head. “But we have a willing chauffeur right here. Besides I’m iffy about teleporting more than one person at a time.”

            “Yeah,” Madge squints, “I hope you don’t mind if I pass on teleporting.”

            “So I’m the only guinea pig?” notes Vince.

            “You make a wonderful guinea pig,” states Matt. “Look at you, you’re adorable.”

            Vince throws grass at him, and Madge laughingly hands him a leftover clover as ammunition.

           

            Vince is studying in my room as I catch up on a list of reference works Bruce suggested. Tony declined to suggest any of his own, stating that science journals and textbooks are “full of it”. His colleagues must love him.

            Vince groans and presses his forehead to the desk. “God, what must it be like to live like Madge? I want a dad who takes me out for ice cream.”

            “I know right?” I look up from the bed. “I want a mom who’d take me to the library just for fun.” So much trauma would’ve entirely overlooked me had I been living in the suburbs in Iowa living an averagely average existence.

            Vince lifts his head off the desk. “How’s the arm?”

            I check the faint purple marks in my skin. “It’s alright.”

            “Doesn’t still hurt does it?”

            “Only if I rub up against something.” I put the marker in my book. “Do you _want_ to go on Tuesday? I kind of volunteered you without asking.”

            He leans his head back. “I don’t know. You guys found the ice cream place when I was gone, right?”

            “Yeah.” I thought about that when he lowered his head during the conversation. “But now we have you _and_ Madge. We can finish that sundae easy-peasy.”

            He nods thoughtfully. “They know I’m in the city now.”

            “Good for them,” I say, holding up my damaged arm. “I can have a few words with scrawny white boy.”

            He smiles broadly. “You’re terrifying.”

           

            Tourists and resident New-Yorkers alike stroll alongside us on the new elevated park called the High Line. Kids swing their legs on modernistic benches as parents relax, and NYU students chat over the sound of traffic on the street below.

            _This better?_ I ask.

            Vince chuckles. _Yeah, I can’t really see criminal deviants hanging out up here._

            Madge spreads her arms out wide and smiles. “I had no idea this place existed.”

            Matt sniffs and cringes. “I always thought it was something cooler.”

            “I came up here once when it was still just train tracks,” says Vince. “Wish I’d thought of it.”

            Madge points to a nearby apartment building. “I’m going to live right there so I can see it from my room.”

            Vince smiles. “Then that’s what will happen.”

            Matt sidles over to a food vendor, hands in pockets, and Madge bends to brush her palm over some lush grass. “I’d take my kids here all the time.”

            Vince looks over his shoulder at Matt. “Hey, loser, you know we’re going out for ice cream in a bit, right?”

            Matt steps away from the food cart with a sigh. “You wouldn’t believe what they’re charging for a spoonful of gelato.”

            Back on street level, Madge keeps looking up fondly at the foliage peeking over the railing of the High Line.  Vince lingers at a newsstand as Matt brags up the other sights on our way. Glancing back, I catch Vince pocketing a pack of cigarettes and collecting his change. Madge laughs at a joke, and Matt has that giggle he gets when he’s being flirtatious. When he holds the door open for us at the ice cream parlor, I elbow him in the ribs.

            “No _flirting_ with my first female friend.”

            “I am being a _delight,_ ” is his response. “Besides, she likes Vince.”

            I make a face. “She does not.”

            It’s difficult finding a table since Matt cannot pick a place that isn’t perpetually crowded. Madge ooh’s and awe’s the 50’s décor, spurring a discussion of her love for classic cinema, while the guys duel with soda spoons.

            “Cherry-on-top,” announces Vince when the sundae finally arrives. “I believe _Madge_ has rights to that.”

            Madge smiles bashfully as we cheer her on, and daintily pinches the stem and lifts it off the mountain of whipped cream.

            _You’re still smoking._

Vince looks at me. _I’m_ _working on it._

_If you’re working on it then don’t blow your money on cigarettes._

            _It’s my money._

 _And your lungs._            

            “Damn, awkward, you guys,” Matt chides. “Stop glaring, and help us finish this ice cream.”

            Vince raises his eyebrows at me, and I sigh through my nose. “Sorry, Madge.”

            “Apology accepted,” says Matt. “Now pick up a spoon and start eating.”           

            _October_

            Bruce has had a breakthrough in self-control, and feels his confinement no longer necessary. He doesn’t say where he’s going, but does state that he won’t be able to receive any mail for a while. I hurry back to my room to write one last letter.

            “You got mail,” I say, closing the door behind me.

            Vince pulls out an earbud and glances over his shoulder. “Hey can you help me with- What’s that?”

            I read the outside of the envelope. “It’s from the University of California-”

            He snatches the letter from my hand. “Did Bruce write you?” he diverts, fumbling with the seal of the envelope.

            I let his real name slip a few weeks back. “Where else did you apply?”

            He looks up at me from under his brows. “Just a couple places.”

            “Are they all in California?” I ask, sitting down on the bed.

            “No,” he’s quick to answer, perusing the letter seriously. “Holy crap.”

            “What?”

            “I got in. Well, I- I might get in, I still have to…”

            You just got here. “You going to go?”

            He sighs through his nose and stares at the letter.

* * *

 

This is just like last time he knows. “I need to get out of here.”

            “You’ve stated that in past,” she replies flatly. “You hate this place.”

            “No, no not this place. I mean-” Vince sighs again. “I need to get as far away from Brotherhood as possible. Just until the heat dies down.”

            She looks at him with her head tilted to the side. “So, you’re going to live in California.”

            “Well, not permanently. Xavier’s will be home base for vacations and stuff.” He rubs his thumb over a scab on his other hand. “I’ll have to get a job, get a car.”

            “Vincent,” she unnerves him by letting out a laugh, “you’re living with the X-Men _._ In a castle. Running and hiding can’t protect you more than this.”

            “But I’m not always here am I? I go to school by myself every week, and it’s only a matter of time before they know.”

            “Yes, but you can’t just keep moving from one place to another, you’ll wear yourself out.”

            “Ace, I _want_ to go to this college and see someplace new. Isn’t this what I’m supposed to be doing right now?”

            Ace leans forward to rest her elbows on her knees. “Alright. Find out how much you’ll need for that car.”

            Rubbing the back of his neck, Vince looks at the floor, ears turning red. “No, keep your money.”

            “I’m not gonna buy your car, Vin.” She smacks his knee. “I’m offering you some start-up cash, as a gift. If this is what you want then tell me how I can help.”

            Some moments he feels it would still be worth it to kiss her.


	35. Chapter 35

            Slices of orange float in the punch bowl, someone's idea of fancy. I take the bottle from Logan. "It's spiked enough."

            With a grunt he grabs it back and nods at Vince. "He's barely even tipsy."

            "He's going on a plane in the morning you want him hung over?" I don't tell him Matt snuck in a bottle of schnapps.

            Another grunt and Logan takes a drink himself. "Think he liked his gift?"

            A bottle opener. "I'm sure he'll find a use for it."

            The going-away party was open invite, so various residents mingle about the room. Vince giggles uncontrollably into a plastic cup of mostly rum as Matt describes an embarrassing recent date. Madge listens in curiously, a wildlife researcher observing the male species in their natural habitat.

            I sit on the back of an armchair across from her. "How're you doing?"

            She groans with feigned exhaustion and takes a sip of soda. "I never wanted break to end. What did you guys do for the holidays?"

            "I never do anything for the holidays," I reply. "I ate my weight and went school shopping with Vince while he worried about everything."

            She giggles and glances at him as he laughs harder. "I heard you got a Christmas card from a certain someone."

            After not contacting me for several months, Stark-stupid had the nerve to send a classy greeting card in the mail.

            "His suits are very...artistic," Madge comments. "I mean he makes them to look good, not just do their job, you know?"

            "He's a very looks-oriented kinda guy." I nod at Matt. "Mattie, what'd you do to your hair, I like it."

            Matt immediately touches it. "Thanks, I- Oh, shut up."

            Vince snickers. "Is it 'coiffed'?"

            Matt smacks him. "You're just jealous."

            "There it is," says Madge, nodding. "I'm insanely jealous."

            Matt points at her. "I'm keeping an eye on you."

            Giggling, she looks away.

            "So," Matt smiles rakishly, "when are  _we_  going to California?"

            Vince crosses his arms. "I don't even live there yet, dork. Are you going catch a plane every time you want to bum in my dorm?"

            "Of course not, I don't have that kind of money." Matt nudges me with his cup. "I figured I'd take the express."

            "The express?" I restate. "I'll drop you in the Midwest, make you walk to Santa Barbara on your own."

            "I feel like I just met you," Madge says to Vince. "And now you're leaving all that way."

            "But, like, will I get airsick?" Matt asks. "I mean, how does that work?"

            "Aw, well you're stuck with us now," says Vince. "Odds are we’ll see each other again."

            "The longer that 'express' comment hangs in the air, the bumpier the ride will be, jerk." I throw a chip in Matt's shirt collar.

            "Well, I'll miss you," Madge puts her arms out.

            "Okay, fine, you're first class," says Matt as he digs the chip out of his shirt. "Now can I please have some assurance my insides won't get jumbled during the trip? And can I bring my surfboard?"

            Vince hugs Madge. "I'll miss you too."

            "Heck no, I'm not carrying all your toys too like some kind of nanny." I throw another chip in Matt’s collar just as he gets the crumbs of the last one out.

            "Would you stop that?" Matt replies crankily, starting on his second chip extraction. "This is a good shirt."

            "It's got a beer stain on it," I point out.

            "Is it a lucky beer stain?" asks Vince, arm around Madge's shoulders.

            "Do you see what your girlfriend did?" Matt brushes crumbs off.

            "Matt, don't make me hurt you," I warn.

            "Someone's got to clean that up, man." Vince points unhappily at the crumby carpet.

            Matt straightens out his collar. "You're such a janitor."

            "And you're a slob." Vince crouches down to sweep the crumbs into his palm. Madge goes and gets a wastebasket, and Matt starts eating chips out of the bowl.

            "What are you even useful for?" I ask.

            Matt just grins through a mouthful then drops the smile. "You're inviting me to any and all parties, Vino, capisce?"

            "Right," Vince wipes his hands off into the wastebasket, "because I'll be invited to those kinds of things."

            "You go to a lot of college parties, Matt?" Madge asks amiably. I can tell she's trying to keep the peace. After hanging out with us for a semester, she's unfortunately witnessed much of our bad behavior.

            Matt shrugs nonchalantly. "A few."

            Vince scoffs, but only in his head.

 

            I lean between the front seats to change the station. "Logan, I don't even know what music you like."

            "Do you…like music?" Vince asks with a wary smile.

            Logan raises an eyebrow. "Don't play any of Matt's crap."

            "That's just an invitation." I pause on a pop channel.

            "Change it," Logan snaps.

            Vince tries not to smile and turns to look out his window.  _What happens if he's exposed to too much Katy Perry?_

            _A Candyland character dies._

            Vince snorts.

            "Alright knock it off." Logan swats my hand and turns off the radio. "It's annoying enough when Jean 'n Scott do it." He sighs through his nose. "Should’ve let you drive yourselves."

            At the airport, before passing through security, Vince gives me a long hug. "Thanks for being so patient with me all month...year...years."

            I smile. "And vice versa."

            Then Vince turns to Logan. "Well."

            Logan puts out his hand and winks. "Do good."

            Vince takes his hand gladly. "I will."

* * *

 

            Security was nerve-racking. Xavier and the rest had gone to extensive lengths to make sure he wasn't on any threat registry. Remarkably, there was no official record of Vincent Detmer ever having been part of a terrorist group known as the Brotherhood. Never having been on a plane, Vince's main reference point to air travel was one infamous September day in the fifth grade when he'd decided to play hooky and ended up watching in fascination as smoke billowed from the Manhattan skyline.

            During stopover in Illinois, he was surrounded by thousands of strangers clouding the air with foreign tongues and harried thoughts. Though he had gained control over the ever present static in his psyche, this remained a staggering challenge. Yet, mixing with other travelers in an airport far from home gave him the anonymity he'd been hoping for. No one here knew who he was or cared where he had been.

            When he at long last exits the terminal at LAX, Ace is standing there waiting. Vince rubs sleep out of his eyes. "It’s like time travel."

            She smirks. "Welcome to jet lag."

            They cram his luggage into his new used car, pick up some household goods, and get lost a few times on their way to the campus. By the time he's talked to everyone he needs to talk to and everything is moved in, the sun has set.

            Ace throws setup instructions on the desk, and collapses into bed. "You okay with that car?"

            "I'm fine with the car," he answers, rearranging his dresser drawers for the third time. "It's the freeway that scares the crap out of me."

            "You can handle it." She sits up to put her shoes back on. "You're going to want a vacuum cleaner for this place.”

            "I wish Matt were here," Vince says soberly. "He already knows all this stuff."

            "I think you're better off experiencing college on your own. Matt's idea of college isn't exactly what you're aiming for."

            "What am I aiming for?" Vince leans back on the dresser and crosses his arms.

            "You're here because…well because you want to be, you have passion."

            "Matt has passion."

            "Matt's too influenced by alcohol and his dad to focus on passion." She shrugs on her coat and puts her hands in the pockets. "Oh yeah, here."

            She pulls out a business card. "That’s the guy who handles internships at Stark Industries. And I put my new number on the back. You have to call me everyday otherwise I'm going to storm over here and embarrass you."

            Vince turns the card over. "You haven't talked to Tony in a while though, is this still good?"

            "What like some kind of coupon? Of course it is." She rolls her shoulders. "Besides I called him with the new phone, so he might be in touch soon."

            Vince walks to the window and looks out. "It must be late in New York. You should head back."

            "It's only ten there, what will I do for the next two hours?"

            "Sleep?" he gives her an amused look. "Why do you go to bed so late?"

            "‘Cause I keep hoping something interesting will happen. Why do you think I bug you so much?"

            He leaves the window to sit beside her on the bed. “Didn't you used to do Danger Room stuff?"

            "It was a means to an end." She yawns. "Should I come back tomorrow?"

            Vince shakes his head. "You'll have to get into trouble on your own."

            Ace scoffs and stands up. "Guess I'll just have to find another partner in crime."

* * *

 

            "I see we finally got a new phone," Tony mocks.

            I flick dishwater at the student volunteer, and readjust the phone on my shoulder. "Some jerk sent me a Christmas card after not talking to me for months. Can you believe that guy?"

            "Well this jerk has some new suit designs," says Tony. "Interested? Or would you rather sulk?"

            "Yeah, I'll come over." I set a clean dish on the rack. "Got nothing better to do."

            "Don't forget to bring that charming personality with you."

            I finish my chores fast and get dressed for California. First a T-shirt with grease stains to hide the grease stains it will receive after a brush with Tony's garage. Some worn out jeans, thick shoes, and an extra hair band to leave lying around for one of the bots to nab. They have a collection going.

            This is how I appear when I teleport into the garage’s kitchen and see a familiar tailored suit standing by observing a painting on the wall. I forgot to turn invisible when I landed, and have no time to correct that before Agent Coulson turns and sees me. Impulsively, I reach for the freezer, grab a bag of ice, and head for the stairs.

            "Out of ice?" Coulson inquires amiably.

            I stare at him, one hand on the glass door. "Not enough."

            His brows rise and fall, but he otherwise doesn't reply. I'm shoving the bag of ice into the upstairs freezer when I hear Tony enter the room.

            "When aren't you raiding my fridge?"

            I nod at the stairs and lower my voice. "I thought today wasn't a consultation?"

            Tony purses his lips. "Yeah, my authority was subverted. Well," he says loudly, "you find it?"

            "Yep," I reply, heading for the front door. "I'll get out of your hair."

            "Good, get out of here." Tony holds the door open then shuts it loudly. I shake my head and he shakes his back.

            Throwing his weight around, Tony moves the meeting to the living room, where I take up residence by the fireplace. Pepper passes through putting on an earring as she heads for the door. I guess she lives here now. She and Coulson share friendly small talk while Tony waits impatiently for the attention to be back on him.

            Sometimes you might see nature photos with the caption "Can you see it?" By the time you do see the jaguar staring you down from behind the tall grass your heart jumps into your throat, and you realize that if this were real life you would've been a carcass long ago. But I always see the jaguar. I saw the redheaded assistant and she saw me.

            Coulson does not give me the same skin-prickling awareness she did, but his presence is enough to keep me on my toes.

            "How's Agent Romanoff?" Tony asks glibly.

            "She sends her regards," replies Coulson in a seemingly flat tone. I smother a smile as he recalls her exact words in his head, and Tony must be able to fill in the blank because he chuckles humorously.

            "Tell her I said same to her,” he replies, pouring himself a drink. "So, what's on today's itinerary?"

            As usual, I block out the majority of their conversation, and indulge in studying Coulson’s mind. I am not unaware that this intrusion is many shades of wrong, but organizations like his have treated me worse in past. Still, I steer clear of his deeper memories, sticking solely to those of his work life. Names, numbers, and select images are all I need for now, the rest I can figure out when I get to SHIELD headquarters. If I can’t physically erase myself from this planet, then it’s imperative I obliterate any trace of my distant history.

            Coulson’s schedule doesn’t allow him to stay long, and once he’s gone Tony heads to the kitchen. “You still about?”

            I make sure the Acura is out of sight when I reappear. “Yep.”

            "Why haven’t you crashed the place lately?” he asks, direct as ever. "You find someplace less cool to hang out?”

            “No, I just…” My head’s too preoccupied to be witty. “I’ve just been busy.”

            “You considered college any further?” He tries to entice me to a tin of cookies.

            "I just dropped my friend off at college, does that count?" I'm anxious at the idea of my information floating around someplace waiting to be discovered.

            “No kidding?” He pops a shortbread into his mouth. “Where are they going?”

            I tell him, and hide a cookie in my pocket. Can’t help it. “He’s going to study engineering, I think. Speaking of which, a suit design was mentioned?”

            He nods and gestures downstairs. “Bring those.”

            Gathering the tin, I follow. He catches me up on his work for a few minutes, describing the improvements and features he wants to put into this new suit.

            “You know I’m just doing this Coulson thing for kicks, but are you getting anything out of these visits?” He shuts down one holo-screen and pops up another. “Because if you did know your real name and birth date, I could’ve helped you out ages ago. Certain records aren’t hard to erase.”

            “No, I know.” The Alkali files, however. “I still think you’re going to get in trouble for letting me sit in like that.”

            He shrugs. “It’s all insider stuff you wouldn’t understand. They don’t give me juicy info anyway, and I generally let Pepper in on whatever we discussed.”

            Which is why they don’t give you juicy info. “As long as I’m not helping you do something illegal. Because we both know I’d never do that.”

            Tony chuckles mischievously, and brings up the specs for his next suit. “So, like I was saying…”

            But as he speaks my thoughts immediately divert to SHIELD.


	36. Chapter 36

             For some reason I expected the agency to be a bit harder to find. It fits neatly on Roosevelt Island in Washington D.C., a conspicuous eagle emblem on the side of the central building. There's a mile long drive from the mainland to this cleverly concealed edifice, a drive made secure by frequent checkpoints and a multitude of cameras. Several short jumps get me past all this and outside the busy front entrance. I cringe as a dozen heads turn when I land loudly on the smooth linoleum of the sizable lobby. Invisibility doesn't feel sufficient in this place.

             Now inside, I head straight for doors requiring special identification. With glass ones I can jump ahead, but solid ones can have inner sensors that I'm cautious of phasing through. Every lock, scanner, camera, and keypad is run by the same system, so if there's a blip- me- it will not go unnoticed. For this reason I hold off on utilizing technopathy.

             Eventually I find the data room. It’s warm from the massive processors, and a few technicians are present. A few private booths line one of the curved walls, so I phase into one that's unoccupied. The booth consists of a single desk and computer. I type in the access code ‘borrowed’ from Agent Coulson, knowing that once it's accepted I have a small window of time.

             Once in, I do a keyword search for Alkali Lake. Numerous files pop up, and I’m discouraged by how many are classified until I realize they are on another subject altogether called Weapons Plus. These files require separate logins, but I don’t have time to hack them.

             I'm distracted by the fact that the most recent results for Alkali aren't from the year I escaped, but date instead to a federal investigation conducted in 2007. According to the investigation the facility was still functioning in 2006. Fingers dance up my spine. I was there in 2006. I wandered over the abandoned surface of the facility thinking myself safe, but all the while it was still operating underground. I’d stood at the edge of a spider web teasing the trip-lines.

             I tense up as I hear footsteps outside the door.  _That's your heartbeat, dumbass._  But my heart skips a beat as I continue reading. Directly before it closed down in '06, the major focus of the facility at Alkali was a project called Cerebro. Cerebro was allegedly designed to wipe mutant-kind from the face of the earth using what sounds like a replica of Xavier's machine. A group of unidentified mutants brought this failed plan directly before the president of the United States, then disappeared. Upon investigation, it was discovered that the Alkali Lake dam had burst, flooding the complex and any evidence within that might support this claim.

             Someone tries the door. I suck in my breath, wipe my eyes on my sleeve, and split my concentration between the locking mechanism and the computer screen. Hastily, I sift through the other results to find Alkali records from the eighties. Why didn't Logan tell me any of this? When I first arrived he asked if something strange had happened to me in the months preceding, but I had no idea what he was talking about. If someone was to replicate Cerebro, they'd have to know what it looked like, and they'd need special parts. Just watching Tony work I know that sometimes things can't easily be replicated, and if you're not a verified genius, are working within a government budget, and want something as specific as the Professor's Cerebro, then you have to get your hands on the original. But, that would mean either Xavier gave them the plans, or they came and saw it for themselves-

             Matt. After Pyro set the graduation day fire, Matt was so worried "the soldiers" had returned that he made himself sick. So, he was present when the military came to find Cerebro. That would explain how the X-Men followed them back to Alkali where Logan had just met me for the second time. And if everyone had suffered some strange effect like Logan told me, then the project had been near success. I was halfway across the country at the time, blissfully unaware that the school I was heading to was nearly depopulated by the same sadists who'd violated my childhood.

             The person at the door is calling someone over his comm. I swear out loud, having scrolled to the end of the results without thinking. There's no time to look again.

 

             The laughter from the dining hall is shut inside, and our skin turns an obscure blue as we step into the dusk. Logan pats his pockets irritably. "What's wrong?"

             I don't bother hiding it. "Are there people looking for us?"

             "What? Why?”

             "From the facility."

             He stares at me. "No."

             "How do you know?"

             "Because it's gone.”

             "How do you  _know_ _?"_

             “We went there not long after I found you." He exhales at the sky, and I ponder his use of the word ‘found’. "Broke the dam, nearly broke the Blackbird. Nearly lost everyone…Jean especially. Pyro left that day too, come to think of it."

             "Happening day," I mutter, fighting off his emotions. "But it was operating when it went."

             Now he gives me a sharp look. "Yeah. They were still there."

             Letting out a pent up breath, I start heading back to my room. I can hear him thinking, so I warn, "Don't ask how I know."

             Intelligently, he doesn't.

 

             "Is she cute?"

             There's a low groan on the other end. "Who am I, Matt?"

             I laugh and kick a pair of shoes under my bed. "That doesn't answer the question."

             "Well, I'm not answering the question," Vince says stoutly. "Unless  _you're_  interested."

             "Crud, now you do sound like Matt."

             Now Vince laughs. "So how was your day, weirdo?"

             "Exhausting." My sweater smells like SHIELD. I pull a book off my desk and flip through it. "I just want you to make some friends while you're over there."

             "Hey, Sukraj's my friend." He says something over his shoulder. There's a short laugh in the background, and his roommate replies good-naturedly. Vince giggles into the phone.

             "Then tell Sukraj I'm relying on him to keep you out of trouble," I say.

             "She thinks you're an upstanding gentleman," Vince relays.

             "And that I'm sorry for dumping you on him, but I had no say in the matter." I set the book on my stomach.

             Vince scoffs. "You said plenty about 'the matter'. I just ignored it."

             "You tend to," I yawn. "I'm going to sleep early, and I'm going to sleep long."

             "You do that,” says Vince. “Sweet dreams."

             "No, finish telling me about your day." I'm loathe to hang up. It's difficult not having him around.

             "That's about it, man. It rained, and I made friends with a stray cat. Not much else to say."

             "Well...keep me updated on this architecture class, it sounds like you're enjoying it."

             "Alright, A. Goodnight."

             I hang up, pleased at least that things are going well in California. However, this only reminds me that I haven't heard from Matt in a while. I feel an unreasonable guilt knowing that the same disgusting agenda that perverted my life also damaged his. In fact, probably all of the students here were affected by Project Cerebro.

             Deep in thought, I lift my book into the air using only telekinesis. I enjoy the effort it takes, so I lift the bed beneath me as well. The bed, the book, and I float steadily for a full minute before settling back down again. I need to get at those older files. Coulson's access code may not work a second time, but SHIELD should have a filing room where they keep physical documents.

             Madge texts me wondering where I am, and if I might meet her in the lounge. I get out of bed and change into a sweater and warm boots. Closing the stable door behind me, I relish the cold moonlight across the chilled lawn. The insulating silence of the woods quells the muted rage that's been building in me since reading those files. It's so peaceful here. If only Vince could enjoy it.

 

             Wasting no time, I jump directly into the data room. As before, there are several agents already here. One in particular is adding information to an older file requiring high clearance to view. When she is finished she picks up the folder she brought with her and carries it out. Instantly, I sit down at her station and reenter her authorization. This time I find the Alkali records from the eighties, and begin the complicated process of removing any that mention the troublesome mutant girl who made life difficult for her handlers. For several months nothing but my food intake and "progress" is on record. I have to assume that the records of whatever I was progressing in have been destroyed- perhaps by me already.

             The system shuts me out before I find the first recorded date of my time at Alkali. Clenching my fist, I refrain from punching the screen. The prompt to reenter my clearance appears, but I leave that trap un-sprung. Time to follow the agent with the folder.

             The data room seals off, but not before I phase through the door. I follow the agent's scent trail as she makes her return trip to the file room. Her scent is corrupted by others as I progress, but I stop when I see her exiting a room with another agent, hands free. I rush to the keypad before they've walked very far, and give it a complicated  _command_  to reopen. The system hesitates, then the door opens.

             It's a small room. Two filing cabinets and a desk jockey- who looks up in mystification at the open door- provide the landscape. I glance around, switching my eyesight to see through things, a rusty ability. With extra effort it works, and I see the concealed entrance to the file room. Phasing through the wall, I pause for a hair of a second, when the lights go out.

             The desk jockey in the outer room has begun speaking into his phone with mild urgency. Adjusting my eyesight again to see in the dark, I quickly inspect the cabinets. With a groan I realize the entire room holds files of a specific category. The hall I walked down to get here must be lined with rooms like these, each a different category. This one is for medical research, but I probably need one on weapons, or military, or-

             There are four more agents in the outer room now preparing to enter. Making a snap decision, I phase into the room next door. More filing cabinets, still not my category. Also, I think the categories are arranged alphabetically which means "weapons research" might be last. Unless they have x-files.

             An upset begins in the medical research room once they realize I'm not there.

             "There's nothing here, sir."

             "Look again."

             "Sir, it's reading nothing."

             My pulse quickens. They knew I'd be invisible. What's more, they have a device that can read me.

             "Wait...sir." The second agent is now closer to the wall.

             The first agent moves toward him. There's a pause.

             "Next room, move.”

             By the time they arrive I'm already two rooms away. As I study each room, they have time to catch up, but I always cross into the next room at the last second. They get clever and send two agents ahead of me, but the agent with the device is never with them. By the time he tells them where I am, I've phased again.

             Thus when I finally find the weapons research room, two armed and frustrated agents are already there. The cabinets holding Weapons Plus records are right in front of me when the agent with the device enters the outer room. I hold my breath and hope my next plan works.

             "Is it still here?" asks the first agent, storming into the room with his gun drawn. I can just see him over the tops of the file cabinets.

             Carefully, I unlock a cabinet telekinetically and pull it out, muting the sound. When one of the other two agents comes around the corner, I use an illusion so he doesn't see anything's changed. My head throbs from juggling so many tasks at once. Plus the crucial one.

             "No, it's gone," the tech agent announces in dismay. "I don't know what happened, it didn't move."

             "Did it leave the room?" asks the tall agent.

             I breathe gently through my nose, and stare over the indistinct labels on the folders. My head feels like a balloon is expanding inside it, and my knees tremble.

             "No, it hasn't left- at least, I didn't see it leave. But the heat signature's vanished, sir."

             Yeah, and it would really like to come back. The agent closest to me looks at the tall agent for further orders, so I lift the illusion that the cabinet is closed. It does little to relieve my distress, but thankfully he walks away.

             I'm turning to my last pocket of energy when the tall agent says, "It might still be here. Circle the room."

             I can hardly say upright in this half-alive state. Currently it's too difficult to manipulate the device, and if I leave the room to lead them away, circumstances may prohibit me from returning. Even now I hear security inspecting the other file rooms, probably with devices of their own. I could just  _make_  the agents leave.

             With a gasp I slam the cabinet shut. They don't hear that, but the agent with the device squeaks. Before he can tell his officer the good news, I jump out of the building. 

 

             Two days later, I'm lying on the sofa in the lounge picking hay out of my hair.

             "Here," Madge sits up on the couch with a sigh, "let me help."

             Sitting up, I scoot back. Very neatly, she begins removing the mess from my hair.

             "How'd you do that again?" asks the junior seated on the other couch.

             "Horse stepped on my foot, and I lost my balance." I was lucky it was only hay I fell into.

             He chuckles. "Ace, taken out by a uncoordinated horse."

             "It wasn't her fault," I say. "We're the dummies trying to balance on two legs."

             Madge clicks her tongue. "Yeah, don't blame the horse, Nacho."

             "I don't," he flips his phone in the air and catches it again, "I blame the Danger Room graduate."

             "Well at least I graduated in something, D minus in remedial math."

             He gives me a dirty look, and Madge tugs my hair. "Don't fight with children."

             My phone blips. "I'm already getting stepped on by arthritic horses, why not descend further?"

             "Because the horse can fight back." Madge replies brushing off her hands.

             I pick up my phone, shaking out my hair, and read my new text from Tony.

              _Be here tomorrow at 2pm._

             Specific, yet vague, and rather unlike him. I don't reply.

             After work the next day, I jump to my halfway point before jumping to Tony's driveway, invisible this time. Good thing I did. A black Acura sits in wait at the bottom of the front steps. At the door I pause to look inside. Tony stands by the fireplace, arms crossed as he speaks to someone out of my view. His features are terse and posture defiant. Besides the one he's speaking to there are two other men in the building, one in the coatroom, and one in the garage. I step through the glass just as Tony sighs in exasperation.

             "You people just hate to be wrong, don't you?"

             "Maybe." The quick, clipped tone indicates Agent Coulson as the person in the kitchen.

             The ceiling light above me turns on, and Tony's eyes flicker in my direction. "I told you, she's not coming today."

             "Any idea where she might be instead?" asks Coulson coolly.

             Tony nods. "Why don't you check HQ again? Maybe there were some doughnuts she forgot to steal while she was there."

             Crap.

             "It's a bit more serious than that," replies Coulson.

             "Uh-huh, well then I'll call you if anything  _serious_  happens."

             Coulson studies him sternly. "That won't be necessary. We're done here."

             He moves for the door, and the other two agents leave their positions as well. Tony and I wait until the car is gone. I'm about to leave when he says sharply,  _"Ace."_


	37. Chapter 37

            "Is she still here? _Ace_."

            I appear.

            "Where is sh-" Tony uncrosses his arms. "Glad you could join us."

            I pinch my tongue between my canines. "What's up?"

            He throws his hands out at his sides. "You tell me."

            I keep his gaze. "What did your friends want?"

            "They had a strong interest in meeting you, primarily." He crosses his arms again and stands with his feet apart. "Wanted to know what I was teaching you."

            "What did you tell them?"

            His expression alters subtly. "How much trouble are you in?"

            I shrug. "Usual amount."

            He gets the face he makes when he's thinking in a circle. "Please tell me I haven't been working with the enemy here."

            Unconsciously, I furrow my brow. "Your enemy, or SHIELD's enemy?"

            "Doesn't matter."

            I pause. "What did you tell them?"

            "I didn't tell them anything, I was waiting to talk to you," he says defensively. "Now maybe you can explain to me why Coulson thinks you walked into SHIELD and accessed their database."

            "Not in here." There's an omnipresent recording device in the room.

            Tony grits his teeth. "JARVIS isn't going to squeal."

            "I'd rather it not be in indelible binary nonetheless."

            "You don't trust me?"

            "Would you trust you?"

            "Hey," Tony's voice is hard, "I'm offering to tailor my story in your favor, the least you could do is trust me that far."

            I keep his gaze. "It's a long story."

            He raises his eyebrows and gestures to the living room. "Shall we sit?"

                          

            Tony downs the last of his third brandy. "God, I knew you were old."

            I press my lips to the edge of my glass, letting the strong aroma twist and swell in my nostrils.

            "Did you get it?" Tony asks.

            "Get what?"

            He runs his thumb over the rim of the glass. "What you went in for."

            "I got distracted." I set mine down. "There was...other stuff that I couldn't ignore." I told him as little as possible about Alkali.

            "And you said the system shut you out?" he asks.

            "The second time. The code I used was entered in another part of the building."

            "So you didn't need to decrypt anything?"

            "There was  _some_  extra work, but I just had the right clearance."

           There's a glow in his eyes, and he puts out his hand. "Congratulations, you've officially graduated Stark Academy."

            I revel in the unexpected feeling that comes from shaking his hand. "Thank you, Professor Pinhead."

            "It was a pleasure, Ace Hardware."

            I stick out my tongue, and he makes a stupid face. I've been studying under a lethally intelligent nine-year-old. "You realize I broke the law."

            "Are you kidding? You're turning out exactly like me how can I not be proud?"

            "Ugh, don't say that."

            "The cloning process has begun."

            _"Stop that."_

            From the entryway we hear. "Stop it, whatever it is."

            Tony puts a finger to his lips. "We don't tell Pepper about this."

            "Like I was going to.”

            "Ace," announces Pepper warmly, "I didn't expect to see you again so soon. Dum-E's been hoarding hair-bands apparently."

            "U," Tony corrects. "U's been hoarding them."

            Pepper blinks with an expression that says "like there's a difference," and gives me a proper greeting. It's a quarter to three, but SHIELD's visit threw off their schedule by another hour. So, I stick around to chat and just watch the two of them interact. I've discovered I love it when Tony makes Pepper laugh and when he looks at her like she's the best reason to live.

            After saying my goodbyes and telling U to hold onto my hair-bands, I jump back to my midway point. Yellow dust rises as I land making me sneeze.

            "Bless you."

            I vanish.

            "Sorry, already saw you," says an infuriatingly smug voice.

            I flash him a look as I reappear. "What are you doing here?"

            "I tried arranging it so we could meet here before you got to Stark's, but it didn't work out."

            "You had him send that text."

            Agent Coulson smiles. "I trust you to understand how hard it is to get him to do something he doesn't want to."

            "I'm leaving now."

            "Back to Xavier's? Good idea," he makes as if he's heading to his car, "more comfortable there."

            I hesitate, just like he'd hoped I would. "What do you want?"

            "Could you do it again?"

            I blink. "Excuse me?"

            "We'll pay with the information you're searching for, though some restrictions may apply."

            "I- I'm sorry, I haven't a clue what you're talking about. Who pays me for what?"

            He furrows his brow gently. "Four days ago you broke into SHIELD headquarters in D.C. and ran an illegal search in our database."

            I choke back a gasp. _" _What?__  No, I- I'm sorry, I barely know what SHIELD is. You're the guys that talk to Tony sometimes, but other than that-  _Broke in_ _?"_

            "Miss, we know it was you," Coulson replies flatly. "And I think you and I can help each other."

            I think you shouldn't call me miss. "Look, I've never even  _been_  to D.C.-"

            "Could this be easily resolved by my calling your headmaster and finding out where you were all week?"

            Stop bringing that up. I swallow. "H-how do you know about Xavier's?"

            He raises his eyebrows and looks around. "There's not another person or even a traffic camera for eighty miles in any direction." He looks me square in the eye. "Stop playing dumb, and start telling the truth."

             Sighing in frustration, I lean back on a nearby fence post.

             "What do you do for work, Miss...?"

             I run my tongue over my teeth. "Amy. I'm an after school tutor."

             "And what do you tutor?"

             "English, which I'll be late for real soon."

             "Then I won't keep you." He hands me a card. "I'd like to meet again, say, this coming Tuesday? We have a few things to discuss."

             I glance at the card in his hand. "I don't think I'm interested."

             "Then we meet at your workplace."

             I hope he understands that certain death lies behind this scowl. "It's that important?"

"It should be important to you for a number of reasons," he replies in kind. "First and foremost that you not be arrested."

             "Perhaps you can explain what exactly I'd be arrested  _for_."

             His expression doesn't change. "We meet here, at five past."

             "How'd you get here so soon?" I ask.

             "Soon? You were at Stark's for two hours." When I deepen my scowl he adds, "We left a recording device in the living room, but it was deactivated soon after you began speaking."

             Tony must've noticed it. "So is there a very fast jet hiding somewhere?" I eye the black sedan. "A big one?"

             "I'll see you on Tuesday," is all Coulson says as he heads for the car.

            

             My landings are awfully timed. The Professor reads me before I've had a chance to notice him. "Are you alright?"

             I straighten up, blink a few times, and calm down. "No, I'm alright. Just a shaky landing."

             Thankfully, the students at the end of the hall are too immersed in conversation to hear. Xavier discerns the subject of my gaze, and gestures down the hall to his office. Once the door is shut behind us, I collapse into the big armchair I used to visit so often. That loose thread is still there on the right arm.

             "Now."

             Everything starts spilling out. Tony, Coulson, SHIELD, and Alkali mix together until I don't know where I started or how to end. The armchair seems smaller than it once did as I try to hide in it, hands in my hair, elbows on knees. Finally, I shrivel, emotionally exhausted for the second time today.

             I don't realize he's so close until Xavier touches my shoulder. "Talk to Agent Coulson. I would advise against doing any extracurricular work for SHIELD, but you know your limits in this field better than I do."

             As usual, his guesses are quite on mark for a psychic who stays out of my head. "How do you know that? How do you just know things about me?"

             "Well, you successfully infiltrated an intelligence agency." He leans back in his seat. "And even Scott has stated you possess exceptional tactical ability."

             "Yeah," I reply offhandedly. "I don't want to talk to this guy, but I don't want these people anywhere near this place. They'll turn it inside out and put us all on some list."

             Xavier nods thoughtfully. "Don't burden yourself with us, we can handle our own affairs. You need answers."

             Holding my face in my hands, tired of thinking too hard, I look at him. "You're not mad?"

             He closes his eyes and smiles softly. "My only hope is that you'll continue to take precautions. You're your own person now. I cannot make your decisions for you."

             I sit up straighter to look him level. "I will be careful. Just...I know I won't like what I find. Breaking in was impulsive, I was trying to get it over with. Now I have to hear it from this man, and that's one more person who will know."

             "Ace, whatever you find, it will be alright. You know who you are, and that's all that matters." Xavier pauses before continuing. "If this agent truly makes you uncomfortable, don’t worry how it may affect us if you return home. Just come home.”

             I raise my eyebrows. "Right. I'll be careful in any case."

             I glance in the direction of the chess board, mildly interested to see how that turned out. The players are at a stalemate, and have been for a while based on the thin layer of dust caressing the pieces. Somehow I knew before I even looked that that's what I'd see.

             

             On Tuesday I'm at the midway point ten minutes early, but Coulson's car is already here coated with dust. Benny Goodman plays at a low volume within the vehicle, and through the tinted windshield I can see the agent waiting patiently. I stand at the front bumper when I reappear.

             The music stops and he steps out. "Interesting choice of location. How'd you find it?"

             I don't intend on lessening my glare. "Math."

             "Math?" he asks dubiously. "You're a kid, kids hate math."

             It's meant to sound ignorant. There isn't a thing about Coulson that isn't calculated beforehand. "I don't plan on staying long, so whatever this is-"

             "How did you acquire my Level 10 clearance, Amy?"

             "How did you find out about the school?" I fire back.

             "Through Stark."

             Big mouth. "What else did he tell you?"

             He shakes his head. "Answer my question now."

             "You don't want that."

             His jaw clenches briefly. "How did you acquire clearan-"

             "I'm clever. What has Stark said about me?"

             "He was remarkably tight-lipped. He told us you were a student, but declined to explain further. I think it goes without saying, but 'clever' is not a satisfactory response."

             "But it's a response." The sun is beating down my neck. "I understood your question, I didn't deny it. If that's not what you wanted-"

             "Did you do it for someone?" he asks next. "More importantly, were you paid to do it?"

             "No. I did it of my own accord."

             He doesn't wholly believe me. "And the abilities? What are those?"

             "I don't understand."

             "Where do they come from?"

             "Me."

             "You used no technological or medical help to get you in?"

             I shake my head uncertainly. "No, just me."

             He nods firmly. "So, are you a mutant?"

             I don't know how to answer. I don't know how his organization reacts to mutants. I wonder if he even knows what Xavier's is. "Yes."

             I can't tell if he's relieved or troubled. "Why did you do it?"

             "Could we maybe pause to clarify just what exactly 'it' is?"

             "Infiltrating the Triskelion in D.C. and tampering with classified data."

             "And how do you know I did that?"

             "The activity matched incidences when Stark’s hacked us before," Coulson raises his eyebrows nonchalantly, "but he had an alibi. As a close student of his, you were next on the list. Since your comings and goings from his residence were impossible to determine, and he had in past mentioned something to the effect of you being off-center, we narrowed it down further.

             "Finally, my clearance was used in the initial breach, which suggested a person I'd interacted with recently. I saw you less than a week before the break-in when I had a consultation with Stark." A thought occurs to him and he looks at me quizzically. "You...teleported then too, didn't you? One moment you weren't there and the next you were right behind me."

             I look away to move hair out of my face. "Your people knew me well enough to suspect me?"

             "More or less. We've tried to keep an eye out for you since last May."

             When I ran into the redheaded assistant, Agent Romanoff or Romanova, or whatever her name is really. I adjust my footing. "And this place, how'd you find it?"

             "Satellite imaging picked you up the last few times you stopped here."

             Because I never felt the need to turn invisible here. "That's a lot of jumped-to conclusions, and very little evidence."

             "I know. But SHIELD can afford to take that risk, it's what we do."

              _" _Why__  do you do it?"

             "To protect you."

             "You don't protect me. You don't even know me."

             "And that's been bothering us for a while now," he says with a squint. Then he clasps his hands in front of him and straightens his shoulders. "Amy, how old are you?"

             Opinions vary. "Nineteen."

             Coulson nods thoughtfully. "You undermined our security measures in a rather unusual way. We were hoping you could replicate that."

             "You want to hire me to break in somewhere else?"

             "Yep." There's a friendly smile in his eyes.

             "And you said I'd get information in return?"

             "Precisely."

             "I don't want your information," I say. "Otherwise I would've taken it."

             "That's why I'm offering you a deal." He leans on the hood of the car and rests his hands on one knee. "And keep in mind this part of the deal is off-book, between you and me. My superiors have agreed that trading you information in exchange for the completion of this mission would be payment enough. But, you do us this favor, tell me what was in those files and why you wanted them removed, and I'll see what I can do about redacting them permanently."

             The wind picks up, sending dirt and sediment dancing over the hood of the car. "You're allowed to do that?"

             He shrugs. "It all depends on the reason."

             I don't believe for a second this isn't a setup. "And these files you want me to extract," I say, "there's a good reason for that?"

             "Do you accept the offer?"

             "Not until I know all the variables."

             "Like you did with SHIELD? You knew all our variables before you tried to erase our data?"

             "The information I erased wasn't yours to have."

             "That's not your call."

             "I can decide that for myself, sir," I counter.

             He looks at me curiously. "These files, they were personal to you weren't they?"

             I exhale through my nose. "I'm not interested in your offer, you can't arrest me, and you can bother Xavier's as much as you like, but it won't stop me."

             "What is it you're looking for?" The lines in his forehead crease as he leans forward ever-so-slightly, his voice tinged with earnesty.

             I'm so used to seeing through people that I sometimes imagine traits in them like sincerity and concern. "I'm done here."

             "It will be harder next time," he says as I step away from the car. "Security is stronger, and the more weaknesses you expose the stronger it will get. Whatever it is you want removed from the record will still be there. Besides, you've attracted us to it now."

             I want to turn away, escape into the endless landscape, and never return home. But instead my lips move and my voice jumps out. "I don't know who I am."

             He observes me carefully, waiting for me to continue.

             "You say SHIELD's been watching me, but you had to ask Tony who I am." I'm surprised by the storm welling up in my throat. "Nobody knows, and I want that, but it's hard to find out where you came from when you don't know who you are-"

             I shut up. Coulson stares at me, and I stare at his reflection in the windshield. After a time, he clears his throat. "Those records, they threatened your anonymity?"

             There's a cloud overhead, I can see it in the glass, and I try to decide if it looks like anything.

             "Amy?"

             "It's Ace," I correct. "Not Amy."

             He nods understandingly. "I'll see what I can do for you, Ace. Here," he hands me a card much like the last, "meet me at this address on Friday. Can you do that?"

             I take the card, but shake my head. "I'd need a picture- I'll figure it out. What time?"

             "Will you be tutoring on that day? Then meet me an hour from now. Okay?"

             I nod and he nods back, smiling softly. "Don't worry, we'll sort this out."

             I'm not so sure about that.

             "And for the record, Stark didn't tell us about the school," says Coulson, opening the car door. "Last year he donated a substantial amount of money to it. That's how we know."

             I get out of the way as he climbs back into his car, and stay in his sights until he drives off.


	38. Chapter 38

            The day before our meeting I scour every inch of the address on Coulson’s card, a one-room cabin in Colorado. No cameras, no devices, no reception. I don't know if I should be flattered or alerted.  
            When he arrives there's a woman with him carrying a tablet under her arm while two men wait outside. I lean against the table at the back of the room, plainly visible. Coulson smiles, but the woman shuts the door without making eye contact. Every action has a purpose.

            "Chilly, isn't it?" Coulson asks, rubbing his hands together.

            This coat is thinner than I thought, but I don't reply.

            "This is Agent Ruiz. She'll be handling your assignment."

            The dark-haired woman presses her lips together in what may be a reluctant smile as she almost imperceptibly glances me over.

            "I agreed to said assignment?" I ask.

            Coulson holds up a file folder. "This is yours."

            The cover of the folder reads _Weapon X_. I look them over narrowly. "What am I expected to do?"

            Ruiz gives Coulson a sharp eye before turning it on me. "You must first understand that anything you see or hear concerning this assignment is to remain within the confines of this building. Any details disclosed to you by either me or Agent Coulson are strictly confidential under penalty of law."

            I don't change my expression in the slightest. Giving Coulson another look, Ruiz steps forward. "Your objective is a mining facility in Read, fifty miles from here, run by Saxe Industries.” As she speaks she taps at her tablet screen. “Within one of the portables toward the center of the site is a hidden entrance."

            She hands the tablet to me, showing me the portables she spoke of. "We haven't yet infiltrated the concealed space as security is apparently more elaborate beyond that door, but our source tells us it’s extended office space. You must enter undetected and document the site with a recording device, which we will supply you."

            Committing the photo to memory, I hand back the tablet. "What do they mine?"

            "It's an old silver mine reopened to create jobs for the local community." Ruiz replies. Then she purses her lips, and settles her gaze on me squarely. "However, a certain rare metal used in weapons manufacturing keeps appearing on the black market. We need to identify the source."

            "And you think the Read mine is that source," I finish. "On what do you base that?"

            "Careful investigation," she replies brusquely.

            Coulson knows that won't buy me. "In the last year, employees at Saxe have contracted illnesses unrelated to silver mining, but fitting the symptoms of a disease caused by mining this rare metal. Since they only claim to mine silver, Saxe is not obligated to pay medical compensation. They are therefore endangering the community while profiting off unregulated mining activity."

            It sounds so black-and-white when he says it. "Why have none of these sick miners mentioned the fact that they aren't really mining silver?"

            The two agents enter into a wordless conference.

            "Because they don't know." I surmise. "Why don't they know?"

            Ruiz gives me a cold stare. "Currently SHIELD is working under the belief that Saxe Industries has undocumented workers for that portion of their operation. The process of mining this substance could still affect the silver workers."

            I look at the photo again. "And I'm sure SHIELD would like a piece of the pie on this rare metal too, huh?"

            With that, Ruiz gives me a sardonic smile. "With SHIELD it won't end up on the black market to be bought by criminals."

            No, with you guaranteed experts will be capable of approved mass destruction. "What kind of 'elaborate' security measures would I encounter?"

            "Cameras," she clips, "motion sensors, and a hand-print scan. If your presence is in any way noted, we've never heard of you and all future deals are off the table-"

            "I'll do it." If only to tick you off, lady. I nod at Coulson. "You have my file, so I assume I'm expected to do it today?"

            Ruiz puts her finger to her ear. "Case."

            The door opens and one of the men that came with them brings in a small black case and sets it on the table before leaving again. Ruiz opens it, takes out a small object and turns to me.

            "On your coat, button the second button from the top."

            Once I've obeyed, she attaches the object to the button, then walks back to the box. "That's the camera you'll be using. A trigger has already been left at the hidden entrance. It will activate the camera once you arrive."

            As I speak, I look at Coulson. "I’m not sure how well it will work once I get there. My...technique has the bad habit of tampering with electronic devices."

            He nods and glances at Ruiz. "That shouldn't be a problem."

            "And then there's the matter of data sometimes getting erased-"

            "The camera will feed to a remote location," interrupts Ruiz. "As long as it turns on, we have the data."

            I refrain from mentioning I may have to walk through walls with this thing. Stiffly, Ruiz hands me the second object from the case, a flash drive. "If you find a computer, this will temporarily allow us access to data stored there. Put in it as soon as you find a computer, then continue documenting the spac. Do not forget to retrieve it before you leave."

            The flash drive goes in my coat pocket. "How long must I stay?"

            "No longer than ten minutes," she replies irritably. "The mine is closed for today, but there may still be staff about the compound and in the offices.” She holds up the tablet. “Agent Coulson and I will observe from here. We’ll wait for your return.”

 

            This is stupid. There was a time when I would have done this sort of thing without question. Take opportunity out of the hands of criminals, achieve justice for some abused workers, and get a pat on the back in return. Well, others got the pat on the back while I sat by and watched my work be undone by corruption.

            Invisible, I get into the portable. Behind one ‘90s-style desk is a built-in closet which I know leads to the staircase disguised by those filing cabinets. At the foot of the last step I find the hidden door with the handprint scan set into the wall. State-of-the-art, yet there's a gap between door and threshold where old weather stripping has crumbled away. I remember what Ruiz said about the SHIELD camera's trigger, and wonder if it's turned on yet. The feed will be damaged if it phases through the door with me.

            Carefully, I remove the camera from my coat button and set it in the lit gap under the door. Once on the other side, I safely reattach it to my coat. Looking around I realize the only interesting aspect of this hidden office annex is the sound of a printer operating in one of the dozen cubicles. Several cameras govern the aisle, and some of the ceiling lights have motion sensors, though these lights are off. I sidestep into a cubicle, determine the computer there to be on standby, and insert the flash drive into an inconspicuous port.

            I can’t imagine how thorough Ruiz expects me to get in ten minutes. Stepping back into the main aisle, I film each cubicle as I pass. In approaching the printer cubicle, I let the hairs on the back of my neck rise as I imagine some undetectable phantom awaiting me. There is none, only a printer spitting out page after page of some lengthy report. I let the agents take that in before I turn and head back to the main aisle.

            Then I feel the brush of another psyche nearby. I hesitate. Yes, there’s a heartbeat as well. Along the back wall there is space for shelves and a coffee maker I can smell distinctly. Heading here, I see a table and chairs, stacks of copier paper, and an open door. Years of tracked-in dirt stain the worn carpet, and ghostly air bites at my bare skin. The light from a tungsten bulb teases its way around the metal doorjamb, and the sound of a file cabinet being opened confirms another presence within.

            The wall clock over the supply shelves ticks. Eight minutes are up. I step into this other room and turn to face the other person. It's a man, mid-thirties with young features, pulling files out of a cabinet and placing them in a box. His movements are leisurely like he has all the time in the world.

            Nine minutes.

            Hurrying back up the aisle, I retrieve my flash drive. I don't know if these devices did their jobs, but that's SHIELD's problem. Without phasing into the stairwell, I jump back to the rendezvous.

 

            Agent Ruiz raises an approving brow as I return to the room. Coulson looks pleased as well, but neither of them says anything. I hand Ruiz the items, and with a curt nod to Coulson, she leaves with the two men and the case.

            "So it worked?" I ask. "The camera and everything?"

            Coulson nods. "You swear you've never done this before?"

            "Can I see my file now?"

            His brow furrows slightly, but his mouth keeps a thin smile as he takes the folder from the table and holds it for a moment. "You must understand, this file cannot be read without the supervision of a SHIELD-"

            "I get it, it's classified." I put out my hand.

            Setting his jaw firmly, he gestures to the table. "Sit down."

            Whether it's something in his gesture or the way he pulls out his chair, I'm reminded of his visits with Tony. Tony teases and brags, but I've seen him be unprecedentedly honest with this man. And anyone who can so calmly handle _him,_ and converse with Pepper like an old friend- as I've seen Coulson do- is not someone I should underestimate.  

            "If you're planning on reading it out loud to me,” I say, “I know you're going to pick over the parts you don't want me to hear. Please,” sympathetic brow, “don't hold anything back. What exactly did you bring?"

            He tents his fingers over the folder. "Documents concerning an individual involved in this highly classified military project. I felt we might go over your reasons for fixating on it."

            I scowl. "That wasn't the deal."

            "I know," he replies. "This deal's better. Once I know your reasons, it will be easier for me to bring back more relevant information next time."

            "You mean it will be easier for you profile me."

            "Do you want to know where you came from, Ace?" He opens the file. "Because for that to happen, you're going to have to try and trust me, if not the organization I work for. M'kay?"

            I lean back in my chair, resigned to keep my mouth shut.

            "Mutant 232," he reads from the file. "Admitted April 23rd, 1984; Exhibited feral qualities and animalistic behavior..." He glances at me as he trails off. "Is this person a relative of yours?"

            "What does it mean by admitted?" I ask instead. These are the files I couldn’t find in SHIELD’s database. I wonder why, if they had hardcopies, they didn’t upload them? Perhaps they were in one of the sensitive files I didn’t have access too.

            Coulson stares heavily. "You can't hold back from me either, Ace."

            Ruiz was against using me, but she risked the outcome of her assignment anyhow because she trusted Coulson. I push my tongue into my cheek. "She's me. The girl in the file is me."

            Coulson now clasps his hands over the file. "You told me you were nineteen."

            I groan. "God, I hate explaining this. No, I was not born nineteen years ago. I don't age appropriately, so when I tell people my approximate age they don't believe me."

            He doesn’t miss a beat. "What's your approximate age?"

            "Older than you," I say, more rudely than I’d intended.

            "Are you-?" He stops to rephrase. "Is this age issue related to your mutant- your mutation? Did I say that right?"

            I rub the toe of my shoe against the chair leg. "They’re somewhat related.”

            He studies the file. "The subject is stated to be eight years old. So...you're thirty-five?"

            "Can we skip this part, the age part? What does it mean by 'admitted', how was I admitted?"

            "Alright," he says, "here's what we're going to do now. There's very little record left of this particular case. If you can relate your experience to me, then I'll be able to change your status to that of consultant. It means I'll have more freedom in researching information for you, and perhaps evenget you amnesty for the break-in."

            Now I stare heavily. "How on earth do you expect to corroborate my story? You have nothing to compare it to."

            "I know a true story when I hear one."

            Exactly. "You said if I did this one mission you could redact my file."

            “If you are who you say you are that changes things.” He leans forward. “Moreover it increases your power over what happens with this information.”

            “Telling you who I am defeats the purpose I’m working toward.”

            “You told me you don’t know who you are.”

            “And you’re asking for the only details I have.”

            “To help you.” He sits back again. “Ace, I asked for your trust, and I take people’s trust in me very seriously, but the more you resist the less inclined I am to help out.”

            I consider grabbing that file and running. “Agent Coulson, I have a long history of being sold out by well-meaning company men like you. If I give you this information, I have no idea where it will go, how it will be used, and when it’ll come back to hit me in the face.”

            “That won’t happen.”

            “How do I know?”

            He sets his jaw. “Like you said, there’s no way to verify your story. Whatever you tell me can be considered circumstantial, but it will still be reason enough to take certain action, say for instance, redacting classified files.”

            I run my tongue over my teeth. “Can a consultant make stuff up and still be considered a consultant?”

            “You realize Stark’s a consultant, right?”

            I try not to smile as I brush hair out of my face. “Alright. My memory of the Alkali facility is spotty. It was always dark, obviously, we were underground. There were other mutants, and...I knew some of them." I put my hands in my lap. "I remember running around a lot, outside of my cell. The guards and doctors hated that."

            "What were the doctors for?"

            There are so many blank spaces. "I don't know. I got shots pretty often, and I fought those." Hands held me down. I remember the way their gloves felt when they gripped-

            "Do you remember how you left?" his voice is low and smooth. Leading.

            I dig my fingernails into my skin. "One of the other mutants broke into my cell, and I ran away. It was winter, and I didn't have any shoes on, I remember that." I hate snow because of that.

            There's a fly in the room, active despite the cold, and he won't leave me be.

            "Do you remember any other details of your escape?” asks Coulson in that same low voice.

            He’s fishing. "Yes, there were explosions. I kept falling down every time one would go off."

            "Do you have any idea how they started?" He asks.

            The fly lands on my hand and I watch him move over my fingers curiously. "I needed a quick place to hide, so I found the magazine. The charges were for breaking through the rock. They were old, I had to wipe moldy hay off them. Nobody saw me putting them down because...well I could turn invisible then too."

            "Wait," Coulson holds up a hand, "are you saying _you_ set the charges?"

            The fly settles in my moist palm, warm though my fingertips are numbing. "I wanted to cover my tracks, so they couldn't follow me-" I close my hand tight, but the fly escapes. "Look, I just wanted to see the file for myself, I didn't want to have to think."

            "I understand," Coulson says purposely.

            "No, you don't." Don't use trained words with me. "None of it makes sense because I can't remember what came before all that. I've tried so hard to forget, but I'm here again and it matters now, it matters where people come from and I _need_ to know that I came from somewhere, and that I'm not...I'm not..."

            "Not what?"

            There's hardly a word for what I'm afraid of. "Not from _there_."

            Both of us stop talking. The fly lands on the table between us. I slide down in my seat and rest my head against the back of the chair.

            "Subject picked for relevance to Weapon X due to retractable feline claws on hands and feet."

            I look up at Coulson, but he continues reading.

            "Heightened sensory abilities; including taste and touch. Can mimic vocal and physical characteristics such as human speech or gait." He moves this sheet out of the way. "June 14th, 1984; Subject exhibits acute learning advantage. After mixing with other subjects, 232 inculcated others' mutations into her own, obtaining ability to vanish as well as lower body heat and respiratory activity to death-like conditions. Obeys orders on command, and excels in preliminary testing. High recommendation."

            Coulson studies the bottom of the page. "There’s a footnote: Pupils slit habitually like those of a feline or reptile. Guards report having seen 232 with black forked tongue."

            My skin crawls and anxiety coils in my chest. I don't remember any of this. I've seen my eyes slit before in the mirror, and Vincent and Bobby have both commented on them, but I don't know anything about a forked tongue or clawed toes.

            "July 8th, 1984; Mutant 232 succeeds in both agility and strength training. Improvements have been made in handling firearms. Has copied mutation to climb sheer surfaces. August 25th, '84; Dental report: Both sets of canines likened to those of carnivorous mammals. October 20th; Successful first endurance test against Mutant 267, despite sustaining minor injuries to legs and back."

            I gasp and Coulson immediately looks up.

            "Sorry. Please continue.”

            He keeps an emotionless expression as he looks back at the page. "Second and third endurance tests subsequent successes. Mutant 267 decommissioned-"

            I grip the edges of my seat. Coulson watches me carefully, and as I waver in my seat he moves to rise.

            "I'm fine," I insist. I can't get any breath into my stiff lungs and feel like sitting on the floor. "Really, I'm fine."

            He stands up slowly, still watching me. "What do you need?"

            I think of the gun inside his coat. Breathing a little, I shake my head, and try to sit up straight. “I killed him. Or they told me I killed him to see if I felt guilty. I wouldn't do tests after that, but...” A panic attack waits at the door, and it would be a relief if this man weren't here. “Please, sit down, you're making me nervous."

            Coulson sits. "I shouldn't continue if it's-"

            "No...yes. Is there anything that says how I was admitted?"

            Coulson pinches the bridge of his nose. "Ace...This is not a case I'm altogether familiar with, but...I doubt you came _from_ this project.”

            Everything he says is grating. I rub heat into my fingertips. “This project is as far back as my memory goes…and people have been born test subjects before."

            He swallows and sifts through the papers. "Perhaps going over the rest of these will jog your memory as to how you came to be in the program."

            I squeeze my burning eyes shut. I was hoping he wouldn't say that. When I open them again, he's looking at me softly.

            "I told you we'd work this out. I'm going to finish the file, and when I get the chance I'll start looking into this case more thoroughly."

            "So I have to see you again?"

            "I'm afraid so." He gives a false grimace before picking up one of the last two pages in the file. "Ready? November 2nd; Subject refuses to participate in further testing. Endurance tests continue as scheduled. December 7th; 232 tested with Mutant 14, but escaped testing room by force. 232 shows signs of returning to feral tendencies."

            Coulson furrows his brows at the next entry. "December 28th; 232 fatally attacked two superiors. Throat wounds consistent with subject's increasingly feral behavior. 232 scheduled for retention…Ace."

            "Yeah, that's...that sounds familiar." I'm trying to become one with the chair, trying not to imagine this violent creature in the same room as me. "Keep reading."

            "January 2nd, 1985; Retention failed. Mutant 232 decommissioned. Overall subject status: failed." Coulson looks up at me.

            "When was the fire?" I ask.

            "January 5th."

            I chew on my cheek. "They put me in a stronger cell deeper down." I look at the ceiling. "No one came near me until I was broken out by accident." They were going to let me die slowly, as punishment, for killing like they taught me to. Or worse, starve me until I became compliant, then resume testing off-record. The latter seems more likely given the circumstances. I scratch my cheek. “What else do you know about this project?"

            Coulson takes a deep breath. “Weapon X is part of the Weapons Plus program. It originated in the Second World War when the U.S. military was attempting to create an army of super-soldiers. There was one success, but the formula that created him was lost. Over the years the program continued in hopes of replicating that formula or at the very least creating an alternative. After a while, values and resources shifted, thus mutants became prime subjects.

            "From what I know, the project at Alkali Lake was the _tenth_ official project, but its focus was not on creating the perfect soldier, but the perfect _living weapon._ Weapon X, or ‘weapon ten’, was unaccounted for the day of the meltdown. For obvious reasons the facility closed shortly thereafter."

            "Has Weapons Plus continued on to this day?" I ask, not expecting a straight answer.

            Coulson sighs and looks at my file. "The account you’ve given is why SHIELD has such a high interest in this, to make sure it doesn't happen again."

            "But has it continued?" I think of the X-Men revisiting the facility in 2006.

            "Not to my knowledge," he answers honestly.

            "So, is weapon ten still out there?"

            "I couldn't tell you that either."

            A thought occurs to me. "Can I see the first entry?"

            He considers it, then hands me the page. I reread the section where it says ‘Subject picked for relevance to Weapon X due to retractable feline claws’.  My claws were relevant to weapon ten, and weapon ten escaped the same day I did.

            "Weapon X must represent quite the monetary investment," I say. "They wouldn't stop looking for them, would they?"

            Coulson nods his head from side-to-side in an uncertain way. "It takes resources to search too."

            And if the weapon is teaching at a boarding school under an assumed identity. "Thank you, for all of this."

            "Thank you for your testimony." He closes up the folder. "You will have full anonymity with SHIELD, and any revealing details against you will not be put on record.”

            He slides the file into the center of the table, stands up, and steps away, clasping his hands. I look between him and the file.

            "Your hack job sent a bug through some of the other related files, something I think Stark taught you. Our technicians have been trying to recover the corrupted digital data without any luck.” He states. “They would need the hardcopy to restore it."

            I stare at him momentarily then take the file from the table. "I apologize for the trouble."

            "That isn't necessary," he shrugs, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, "but we appreciate your attempts to help rectify the matter."

            I stand up, file in hand, and smile at the floor. "Is this why Tony likes you?"

            "Does he? I'm pretty sure I just annoy him."

            "He calls you G-Man. Pepper told him to knock it off, so he just says it around me now."

            "That doesn't sound like a good thing." He still smiles though.

            "Well, it's not said in a bad way, it's kind of...I don't know, it's a nickname. And I've heard his mean nicknames for other people, trust me, this one's a good one."

            "I'll take your word for it." Coulson winks. "Have a safe trip home."

            "How should I...meet you again?”

            He raises his eyebrows thoughtfully. "I could have Tony text you again."

            "That got me in trouble last time. And it involves bugging Tony."

            "You don't like bugging Tony?"

            "Well...I do."

            He just smiles a little wider as he opens the cabin door. "We'll be in touch, Ace."

 

            The file sits before me on the bed. It's difficult to grasp that this official, destructive thing exists in my bedroom. I reread it twice before I got home, just to make sure he didn't omit anything crucial.

            Logan knocks on the door.

            "You're back," I say as he comes in. "You okay?"

            He gives a humorless huff and heads for the bed. "I don't still smell like seawater do I?"

            I move some laundry onto the file, making it look like I've made space for him to sit down. I forgot the X-Men have been in Japan all week for the relief effort. "I'd still like to help."

            He shakes his head. "You don't want to be over there. Besides, we're low on fuel right now." He smacks my knee. "Tré said you were looking for me? And when are you going to clean this place? Your last room was always so tidy."

            "Never mind, Logan, go away."

            "You called me in here."

            "Not to critique my _room_."

            "What's under the laundry?"

_"Get out."_

            He stands up and pushes my laundry off the bed. I grab the folder and flip it over, but he catches my wrist.

            "What the hell- where did you get that?" he demands, all playfulness gone from his voice. "Is that what you called me in here for?"

            "No."

            "No? Ace-"

            I wrest the file away from him and sit on it. I wonder if he'll try to pick me up, I can see him doing it when he's angry.

            "Let me see it _now_."

            "No, it's _mine_. I was going to show it to you, but you just got back I didn't want to stress you out."

            "Well you got me yellin' now, so tell me what it is."

            "Calm down first."

            "I am calm!"

            I wait while he considers the irony of this then carefully bring the file out. "It's about me."

            "Where did you get it?"

            "It's creased now," I accuse, trying to smooth out the damage. "I can't tell you where I got it, but it's about me, it's my file...part of it."

            He swallows and rubs his chin. "Is that all you wanted to tell me?"

            I rub my thumb over the edge of the folder. "I'm talking to someone about finding out where I came from...and how I ended up at Alkali."

            Logan takes a deep breath, and sits down on the bed. "Can you trust this person? This kind of information has a cost, and I don't want you caught up in that."

            "I can handle the cost.” I hand him the first page. "It isn't very thorough. I'm sure there are other documents somewhere that go into more detail."

            I wait while he reads it, running my thumb over the edge of the folder.

            "Clawed feet?" he asks.

            I try to smile, but it turns into a frown. My limbs are shaky and like I did with the two agents today, I try not to hear what he's thinking.

            Logan flips the page over to read the backside. "Any idea what 'admitted' means?"

            "That's what I kept asking. Do you...have you figured out how you ended up in the program?"

            Logan sighs heavily and holds the paper in his hands. "I’ve been told I volunteered. It's come back little by little, and...if I did volunteer, whatever I signed up for isn't what I got. What does the rest of it say?" 

            "They talk about abilities I picked up while I was there, things I was good at.” I stare at the handwritten footnote on the second report. "I sound like a monster. It says I killed two people, but I don't think that's what happened. It's just...I _know_ they're lying, but this person they describe and the things I remember...this terrifying little freak couldn't possibly be me."

            Logan swallows and hands back the report. "Of course that kid isn't you, you know how much pressure you were under."

            "Then who was I before?" My voice is growing a little frantic, so I swallow and try to calm down. "Who- who should I actually be? Was I always the person in this file? What kind of person would I be if this hadn't-?"

            He takes my hands and the file falls into my lap. "Stop thinking."

            I clamp my jaw tight, but there's no avoiding this one. My head aches as the room closes in around me. Logan’s telling me to breathe, but it doesn't register. He's both too far away and too close. I push at him because he's stressing me out, but now I’m afraid to do this alone. He moves stuff out of the way and I try to tell him I'm fine, but my throat is tight and my face is in his shoulder, and I don't want anything but for it all to stop.

            "There you go, breathe deep." His arms relax. “You’re alright.”

            In the seconds following, I still feel death is near, but the terror is on the downslide. Logan’s hand is on my back, and I breathe in and out to feel its pressure. I sniffle into his shirt and sit back. The folder is more crumpled now, the papers bent. “What should I do with it?”

            “What do you want to do with it?” asks Logan.

            There’s still a nauseating flutter in my stomach when I look at it. “I was going to burn it…but it’s history...evidence I existed.”

            “Yeah, as Mutant 232.” He taps the lip of the folder. “And this is _their_ history of how you didn’t meet _their_ skewed expectations. You want that following you around the rest of your life?”

            I think of how they came to the school when Matt was going here, and that it cost them their lives. Any remnants of Logan and I are buried under a desolate lake. “So I should burn it?”

            “And dance on the ashes.”

            I run my hands through my hair and groan. The thought of dancing makes me sick again.

            “C’mon.” Logan takes the file and holds it like he’s going to tear it in two. “Ready?”

            I close my eyes. The sound is relaxing.


	39. Chapter 39

            The Pacific can be cold when it wants to be. I rub my hands up and down my arms as I wait for Vincent by his car. The campus is so big students have to ride bikes to get from place to place, so the bike rack nearby is packed full. They're probably rusting in this salty air.

            Vince comes around the corner of the building walking his own bike. There’s a flush to his cheeks and a bright look in his eye.

            “Someone’s happy.”

            He just shrugs and smiles. “It’s a nice day.”

            I wait for him to finish locking up his bike before saying, “You smell like ladies’ deodorant.”

            “I do not,” he exclaims, discreetly sniffing his shirt. “It’s detergent.”

            “That’s right, question my sense of smell.” I lean against the passenger-side door as he unlocks the car. “So, is this sculpture-class-girl? Kirsten was her name?”

            “Shut up,” he drawls, opening the door.

            “Vinny, that’s so sweet.” I climb in and buckle up. “I’ve never seen you have a crush on anybody else. No wonder you didn’t miss me.”

            “Okay, let’s change the subject.” He turns the key in the ignition. “What’ve _you_ been getting into lately?”

            “Not a lot. Work. Your calls break the monotony.” I watch him raise his eyebrows as he puts the car in reverse. “I’m the clingy girlfriend, aren’t I?”

            “I didn’t say it.”

            “You were thinking it.”

            He smiles. “I did miss you.”

            “Liar.”

            He shakes his head. “Really. I know two mutants here and they’re both ‘in the closet’. Sometimes I forget I’m one of them. I miss all of you.”

            I look out the windshield. “I think that’s how Matt felt when he started college too, why he kept inviting us.”

            “Yeah.” Vince furrows his brow. “Does he still do that with you?”

            “Sometimes.” I fiddle with the heater before looking to him for permission. “I think the need has worn off though.”

            What I don’t say is that Matt’s becoming more and more “human” every day. It’s a philosophy that would only stress out Vince.

            He readjusts his hands on the steering wheel. “Matt likes conformity.”

            I pull my hair back. “That’s what we’re supposed to do, learn to live in the real world.”

            “But we’re not supposed to stop being ourselves.”

            “Well, not everybody wants to be the person they were born, Vin. Not everyone wants to be the person they become either.”

            He bites his tongue as he drives, holding back.

            I let my hair down again, annoyed by it either way. “Talk to me.”

            “It’s just that…everyone here thinks they’re so enlightened. They think they’re entitled to just shoot off at the mouth about things they know nothing about.” The tension builds in his voice until it’s biting. “I mean seriously they know _shit_ about mutants, but they think they have the right to voice their opinions about us. It makes them feel good to think we’re just _misunderstood_ , or that we’re suffering a disease, any way they can think of to write us off, and I just get so _sick_ of-”

            He stops abruptly. The car is quiet for a while.

            I dust crumbs out of the cup holder. “You never talk like this over the phone.”

            Vincent’s face is a fixed frown. “Yeah well…there’s always someone around isn’t there?”

            I don’t know what else to say. The drive is short as we’re only visiting a nearby fast food place he likes. Once we’ve parked I put my hand on his arm before he gets out.

            “If you ever want me to come out here don’t hesitate to ask. And it’s not like I can’t get you to the school now and then.”

            He nods silently, and gets out of the car.

 

            Madge looks up from the book on the desk, head in her hands. Her dark bob swings back into place as she lowers her hands and smiles curiously. “What’re you doing down here?”

            We’ve established that despite having once broken my big toe by dropping a dumbbell on it, I don’t need to make many visits to the infirmary. "Saw Hank and Jean leaving for their conference, and figured you were all alone down here." I pull up a chair. "Thought I'd keep you company."

            "Aw, you're sweet." Madge gives a heartfelt smile. "It gets spooky down here sometimes when no one’s around. The other two interns cover the weekend, but I’m here until dinner today."

            With a paper bookmark she saves her place and closes the book.

            “Were you happier with your book?” I ask.

            She shakes her head. “It’s a guy book. I have to read it for class, it’s horrible.” Straightening out a file basket, she sighs. “So, how’re the guys?”

            “The guys? Oh, those guys. They’re fine. Vinny’s flirting with this girl in his sculpture class, and Matt…well, he’s probably flirting with something too.”

            Madge fiddles with her earring. “Matt doesn’t have a girlfriend?”

            “They come and they go.” I notice she didn’t ask if Vince has a girlfriend. “So, aside from the obvious, why do you want to be in the medical field?"

            "It's helping people," she answers, “and if I’m capable of helping, I should.”

            We can hear the elevator descending.

            "What do  _you_  want to be?" she asks, pressing her hands between her knees. "I can't see you being a tutor forever."

            It's a thought I haven’t considered. "I have no idea. I’ve never really aspired to anything." There’s a clamor coming down the hall, sounds like X-Men. “What would you like to do if it turned out medicine wasn’t the thing after all?”

            Madge opens her mouth to reply, but at that moment the doors slide open and Logan steps in.

            “Hey, we’re short two members. You’re up.”

            Madge and I look at each other.

            “Ace,” he barks. “Yeah, you, get out here.”

            Scott steps up behind him. “Ace, suit up.”        

            “I just told her that.”

            I’m out the door before the arguing can continue with Madge calling goodbye.

            My footsteps echo hollowly up the Blackbird’s ramp. Nobody seems surprised to see me boarding or comments on my training suit. I sit next to Piotr, imposing in his bulletproof vest.

            “Where are we going?” I ask quietly.

            He leans down to share in my discretion. “Scott usually tells us on the way.” He raises an eyebrow at the ramp as Scott quickly boards with Logan close behind.

            “Elementary school in Nevada,” begins Scott as Storm raises the ramp from her place in the cockpit. “Three gunmen on their way, Professor’s unsure as to motive. They have five minutes head start, and are an hour out from their destination. We should get there same time they do.”

            I remember how surprisingly fast we made the trip from Malibu to Westchester when Logan got me from Stark’s. If gunmen in Nevada are already on the move, we’ll probably get there _before_ them.

            “Any of the hostiles mutant?” asks Logan.

            “None.”

            “How big is the school?” I ask.

            “Campus is smaller than ours,” Scott replies. “But the student body is considerably larger. We focus on evacuating, Colossus and Logan are defense. Keep the kids out of harm’s way.”

            “And hopefully end the situation before they’re traumatized for life,” mutters Logan from his seat ahead of us.

            The jet sucks in its breath, and I can hear the ceiling creak as it pulls open. The hangar is beneath the school’s blacktop, but I know from experience that Xavier tells you to clear out if you’re up there. The jet rises with a sigh, and I crane my neck to watch through the windshield.

            I gauge the mood of the team, just so I know how I should feel. Piotr is relaxed with his usual passivity, Logan is equal parts bored and aggravated, and both Scott and Storm are keeping even tempers as they control the jet. Hank, the other missing member of the team besides Jean, hasn’t been around long, but everyone already knew him when he arrived last year. He’s also a doctor which is why he and Jean are gone on a medical conference together. Being the stand-in for the two of them is intimidating, but Logan likes to throw things at you sometimes to see if you catch them. 

            When Piotr looks at me I know I’ve been staring intensely at the seat ahead of me, so I try to relax again.

            “Hey,” he elbows me, “are you nervous?”

            “It’s been awhile since I last did this.” I breathe in through my nose and exhale loudly. “No, I’m fine. Not a big problem, three guys. Not big.”

            “No,” he agrees. “Be bigger than them. Like me.”

            “Yeah, I’ll try to be big like _you_ , Pete.”

            He just laughs that deep laugh of his. “You’ll be fine.”

 

            _Where are you? I've got nine kids crying in here and can't budge, so get down here and-_

            The door crashes in. The kids gasp and cover their ears as, hinges shattered, it hovers over them. I smash it back as hard as I possibly can, but the guy's rabbited, and instead it leaves a deep dent in the opposite wall. Crap.

            I shush my collection of 8-year-olds and tell them to hold hands again. "Who knows the band Queen?"

            "Yeah," murmurs one quiet boy's voice.

            "Start singing 'Rock You', okay, c'mon."

            Replacing the door for the time being, I search beyond the realm of the utility closet for the exact location of the creep in the hall. My rock fan starts up in a timorous voice,

            "Buddy you're a boy make a big noise playing in the street gonna be a big man someday…"

            "Stomp your feet, Christian, teach 'em how." Hurtling the door out again, I throw up a force field. The gunman jumps into the open doorway and lets his automatic spray. I silence the violent sound. _"Louder, guys.”_

            "We will, we will rock you."  _Stomp, stomp, stomp. Stomp, stomp, stomp._  

            A telekinetic push forces the gunner backwards into the dent in the wall, bullets dropping noiselessly. "Keep holding hands. Reggie, hold onto my belt and lead them out."

            Trembling fingers tug at the back of my suit, and I step forward still holding the field up. The gunman groans in the hallway.

            _Stomp, stomp, stomp. Stomp, stomp, stomp._

            With a shiver, I bubble the force field into the hall as we emerge. The second gunman startles me by cursing loudly as he reloads. I silence _that_ too before bullets hit the field like marbles into gelatin _“Louder.”_

            "WE WILL, WE WILL ROCK YOU."

            If a bunch of little kids were screaming that at me the way these are, I'd pee my pants. "Close your eyes, keep singing."

            I don't check to see if they obey. The second gunman advances, mouth still moving angrily, when the wall next to him explodes in a shower of drywall and a metal fist slams into the side of his head. A scream goes up, but Christian begins hollering the guitar solo. Colossus steps through the hole, expanding it, and towers to his full height as he shines dully under the fluorescent lights. Grabbing the gun away, he passes it back through the hole, then in one sweep lifts the man up and over his shoulder.

            Eight shrill voices continue to shriek as Colossus comes for the second man.

            "Guys, it's okay. Reggie, you're pulling my belt down."

            The second gunman is discreetly smacked by a steel palm to stop his groaning then joins the other man over Piotr's shoulder.

            The kids file out of the emergency exit in as orderly a fashion I can arrange. One girl in plaits won't let go of my hand.

            "Are you a mutant?" she asks, impaling me with one cloud-gray eye.

            I hesitate. "Yes."

            She doesn't reply, but holds onto my hand a little tighter when the police cars come into view. There is movement from the other side of the playground where Storm and a teacher are leading a group of older kids.

            "Ace," Pitor calls to me from inside the building, "Cyclops is down, we have to go."

            I look down at Casey attached to my arm. Law enforcement is swarming the place, and my kids are almost at the gate. Quickly, I grab the last kid in line and make him take Casey's hand. "Buddy system. Keep following the others."

            They look at me like bewildered puppies, but obediently do as I say.

            Scott is being carried up the ramp by Piotr, Storm hurries ahead of me to get the jet ready, and Logan’s already inside setting up the stretcher. I hesitate on the ramp to make sure no one’s followed us.

            Piotr and Logan are preoccupied with strapping in Scott, who’s lying awkwardly on his stomach. The back of his suit leg is torn in multiple places, and I smell the blood before I see it. My only job right now is to buckle in and stay out of the way. Once Scott’s secure, the other two strap in hurriedly for our ascension, miserable to the sound of Scott’s pain. I grit my teeth as my nuisance empathy echoes his anguish.

 

            Red-faced, Scott clenches his jaw tight as Logan and Piotr lift him out of the stretcher.

            “Jump ahead and tell Maggie,” Logan orders me.

            Madge yelps as I land in the nurse’s office. “Goodness, Ace, you scared-”

            “Scott’s been shot.”

            She goes a little pale then jumps out of her seat. “Where?”

            “Left leg, calf.” It wasn’t something I really wanted to scrutinize during the trip back. “Three bullet holes, I think.”

            Cabinets open and shut fruitlessly as she searches for something, hands shaking. “I can’t find the- Shoot.” She pauses to catch her breath.

            I distinctly hear Piotr marching down the hall carrying Scott. Grabbing a rubber band from the desk, I pull my hair back. “Relax. What do you need first?”

            Madge stays frozen by a cabinet, fingers clenched around the metal handles. “He’s in his suit, so I need something to cut him out.”

            “Logan’s done that, and gauzed him up.”

            “Then…localized anesthetic?” she shakes her head, unsure.

            “Where does Jean keep that?”

            Mentioning Jean specifically should bring up her instruction. Automatically, Madge heads for a drawer just as we hear the double doors to the operating room slide open.

            Scott is laid out on his stomach on the operating table like he was on the jet. The next steps consist mostly of Madge sending me to fetch things, and me doing my best to lower her stress level. The presence of Piotr and Logan disturbs her, so I replace them with Storm as soon as she’s available. With Storm there Madge’s hand trembles slightly less as she cleans and redresses the wound. The anesthetic does its job, Scott relaxes, and that in itself is enough to ease the rest of us.

            Madge swallows. “Okay, after this I’m supposed to wait until Jean or Hank can do the rest.”

            “They can’t be back until tomorrow morning at the earliest,” reminds Storm hastily.

            Madge takes a shuddering breath and peels off her gloves. I reach for the box to hand her fresh ones, but she shakes her head.

            “Are they still in there?” she asks.

            When Storm looks at me I realize what’s being asked. I squeeze my eyes shut. “Yes.” I come around to Madge’s side of the table. “I know how to take them out.”

            She stares at me in shock, and Storm tightens her grip on Scott’s shoulder as he takes a deep breath.

            “Do it, Ace.”

            I was expecting a bit more opposition. Wide-eyed, Madge gives me space to work, reaching for the cotton to stop the blood when it comes. I half expect her to find me the right tools as well, but she’s not thinking straight, and it doesn’t matter anyway. It takes a combination of my prying eyesight and telekinesis to extract the bullets. I’ve never done this before. I’ve seen it done, but not with bullets. Scott’s brave.

            To my extreme relief, they are only in the muscle of the leg and did not strike bone. The only way they got in at all was by the angle they came from, as the X-suits are moderately bulletproof. The gunman must’ve been on the floor when he fired, and Scott had to have been turned the other way. Logan was present because he alerted Piotr, so that surely meant lights-out for the gunman.

            Distracting myself with this kind of analysis helps me get through the gruesome chore. Storm has been conversing steadily with Scott during this time as well, keeping me distracted when my own mind does not. My limbs are trembling by the time the third bullet slips out, and I feel a headache coming on. Restraining my gag reflex, I hurriedly drop the disgusting object into the tray and back off.

            Madge is quick to replace me, staunching the fresh flow of blood. I don’t volunteer myself further as the stress of today pulls me heavily onto the nearest stool. The gunfire, the scared students, the flight, the blood, and the excessive concentration required to telekinetically extract three bullets are all crushing me. I’d like to step out into the hall where the reek of antiseptic can’t follow me, but I wouldn’t abandon Madge for such a meaningless reason.

            “Okay,” she announces unsurely.

            “It’s healed?” Scott asks over his shoulder.

            Storm helps him down from the table, holding his arm and shoulder as he carefully puts weight on the leg.

            “I wouldn’t do that just yet,” Madge warns hastily. “I’m not sure how-”

            “You did fine,” interrupts Scott. He sighs contentedly. “Leg’s numb anyway. I won’t hear the end of this one. Good work today. Both of you.”

            Madge smiles quietly, and I find the energy to get up and help her clean. The two X-Men leave for the locker rooms slowly as Scott tests out his leg. When the doors open I see Logan in his day clothes waiting impatiently before stepping forward to relieve Storm. Then the doors close again.

            Madge gives a loud sigh of relief. “I don’t ever want to do that again.”

            I laugh under my breath as I carry instruments to the sink. “You’re the one who wants to go into nursing.”

            She gives a weak laugh. “I hate you.”

            Piotr enters the room now, smelling like a fresh shower. When I glance over my shoulder he has that I’m-about-to-hug-something look.

            “Where are the two surgeons?”

            “Trying to clean up.” I nod at his shoes. “Out, big man.”

            Still, I smile when I hear Madge giggle behind me, and when he comes up to squeeze me too I elbow him gently.

            “Afraid Logan would have to start calling him Gimp,” he jokes.

            “Do you know if Jean’s on her way back?” asks Madge in a concerned tone.

            “He’s calling her right now,” Piotr replies. “Telling her not to worry, ‘Maggie did a good job.’”

            I can imagine her blushing right now, and turn off the sink. “I think a cake is in order.”

            “No, stop it,” she blushes harder when I turn around. “If anyone, Scott deserves cake, he’s the one who got shot.”

            “Well, I want cake.” I look up at Piotr. “Pitch in and I’ll go buy us a cake.”

            “You?” He arches his brow in surprise. “Aren’t you exhausted?”

            “I’m starving.” I grab the disinfectant and continue cleaning.

 

            After dinner Madge got her cake and a round of applause, and I took advantage of the situation by slipping into the kitchen and grabbing thirds before bed. Not a great friend when I’m hungry. As I’m heading to the stables, Logan hooks an arm around my neck.

            “Where’re _you_ goin’?”

            I laugh into his shirt as he pulls me around and kisses my temple.

            “How does it feel knowing you could do all that today?” His eyes are smiling. “Think you’re up for more?”

            “Not right now,” I lean heavily against his shoulder. “I’m beat.”

            “Too beat to have a drink with the team? C’mon, coupla’ beers and then you can go to bed.”

            Beer. “Sounds good.”

            We’re heading to the den when I get a text. Logan walks on without me, glancing back to make sure I intend on catching up. I’d hoped to hear from either of the guys, but the number isn’t one I recognize, and the message is even more cryptic: A date and time, and an address in Milwaukee. Coulson.


	40. Chapter 40

There’s no furniture in the conference room except for the eight swivel chairs. I have them arranged as an obstacle course by the time Coulson arrives. For a long moment he doesn’t speak as he observes my activity. Finally, he says, “There’s usually a table in here.”

“There’s one in the other room.” I try to point, but my chair is still spinning. “I’ll get it.”

“Leave it.” He sighs and removes a chair from my course. “So, after you escaped the fire, where did you go?”

I wondered when he’d ask that. “I kept moving. Must’ve made it to a road eventually.”

"You realize the nearest road-”

“Is very far away, yes, I know.”

“A day on foot _might_ get you there if you’re a full-grown adult dressed for a Canadian winter.”

“You remember the part where I’m a mutant? The elements weren’t my biggest problem.”

“I suppose not.” That infuriating almost-a-smile is present in his eyes.

“You found something.”

He taps the folder he brought with him on his knee. “Yep.”

The smugness is palpable. “That mine you sent me to, you get what you need?”

“More or less.”

I nod slowly. “They dealing that _rare metal_ after all?”

“I get it, Ace.” Smugness fades. “Except that has nothing to do with our conversation.”

“You’re allowed to lie, but I’m not?”

“I’m not lying to you about anything pertaining to you. Are we going to have this discussion every time?”

“Are you going to be a government agent every time?”

He holds out the file. “You weren’t born into the program. They found you and brought you there.”

I try not to snatch the file too hastily.

“Now, for the _anonymous_ record, where did you go after escaping Alkali?”

I hardly hear him. “So I am from California.”

He hesitates. “Do you know why you were alone?”

Alone? I reread the information and this time it sinks in. Surveyors in the California foothills had reported a feral child to the local authorities, but the ears at Alkali overheard. They picked me up in ‘84 when my progress reports began, but I’d already been living on my own for some time.

I stare hard at the page. “I don’t understand.”

He clears his throat. “Do you, remember your parents at all?”

I never thought I had any. “What does this mean?”

“It means you weren’t born an experiment, but beyond that I don’t know.” He’s watching me with a frown. “They didn’t know who you were when they found you, and if you gave them a name-”

“Animals.”

He hesitates.

“Some of my mutations I copied from animals.” I look up at him again. “I had them at the facility, but I couldn’t have learned them there.”

“You think you picked up these…traits, while living alone?”

I close the folder; there wasn’t as much information this time. “You’ve been covering for Tony ever since he came out as Iron Man.”

“We try,” he smiles thinly.

Setting the file in my lap, I tuck my hair behind my ears. “I never made it to any road that night. You won’t believe a single thing I’ve told you if I say what actually happened.”

            He sits back and smoothes the front of his suit.

            “When I ran into the woods, I don’t know how far, there was a spinning light. I’ve seen them since, but only glimpses, like out of the corner of my eye.”

            He doesn’t refute me, I’ve told him many bizarre things lately. Still, he’s allowed to think me schizophrenic after this next part.

            “Ace,” he says when I hesitate, “whatever you tell me will not be the strangest thing I’ve heard in my lifetime.”

Doesn’t make me sound less stupid saying it. I stare at a knot in the aging carpet. His thoughts are faint like he knows to hold them back, but among them I hear one reassuring note. He thinks I fantasized parts of my account, the kind of delusions that would occur to a malnourished, traumatized child.

“It was a portal, to another dimension. Or just another planet, I’m not sure, but it disappeared as soon as I went through it.”

He doesn’t reply.

Swallowing my shame, I close my eyes. “You’re the only person I’ve told about this. I have no witnesses, no proof, I just know what I saw. After everything you’ve done for Tony and me, I thought…” I hand him back the folder. “Here. I don’t care what you do with it.”

Getting up, I find my coat and put it back on.

“Were there people there?” Coulson asks.

“Not humans. Well, some humans.” I turn to face him as I adjust the cuffs of my coat. “Like I said, it was another planet.”

Coulson smoothes his hand over the file. “What did the non-humans call themselves, what was their race?”

“There were so many. English was a known language, thankfully.” I see the expression on his face and hear his thoughts a little clearer. “You’ve met aliens before.”

He stands up and buttons a button.

“So, we have them?” I point to the floor. “Here?”

He looks at me again. “You just told me you met some.”

“I know, but-” I rub my hands over my face. “Oh, I wish you’d told me.”

“And I’d hoped there weren’t more than the ones I encountered. I don’t suppose you can count the different races you met on one hand?”

“No,” I shrug in my itchy coat, “and this might not be their galaxy- they’d never heard of Earth. Which ones did you meet?” I hope I don’t know them.

He dodges the question in any case. “What did you do after going through the portal?”

My tongue presses to the roof of my mouth, memories re-knitting. “I snuck onto a freighter and ended up on a core planet, heavily populated. People took me in, but I never aged properly after that.” Might’ve been the portal’s doing too.

“So, you became stranded,” Coulson infers.

“Essentially, yes.”

“For how long?”

There’s not much I’m afraid to tell him now. “Seventy years. Might be closer to eighty, but counting became less important after a certain point.”

He hardly reacts. “So you are older than me.”

            I raise my eyebrows. “What must you see in your line of work?”

“Iron Man, for one,” he smirks. Then the smirk fades. “It got a lot weirder after Iron Man. What did you do in those seventy years?”

“Roughly what you do. The people I lived with were diplomats, and I went along with them on goodwill missions. We didn’t always receive goodwill in return, so I was sometimes put to use gathering intelligence.”

“How and when did you get back?”

With a deep breath I address his knees. “There was a regime change. My legal guardian and I went into hiding until the powers flipped again; then, after the second revolution I searched for and found a portal back to Earth. Once I was through, I immediately searched for Alkali. This was 2005, I couldn’t remember any place else.”

“And how old were you…developmentally?”

I let my face reflect my appreciation. “Thirteen. Since then I’ve been aging accordingly.”

Coulson purses his lips and stares at nothing, his mind sorting out the tangled mess I’ve thrust before him. Rubbing his hands together for heat, he asks, “Did you ever know of an alien race called Asgardians?”

            I watch him carefully. “No. How…influential are they?”

He shakes his head and sits up. “Never mind.”

 

            This folder I keep, rereading it until I’ve memorized every line. The words aren’t as harsh as they were in the last file, but the effect is significantly worse. The last file indicated my rebellion, this one my incarceration. And my orphanage.

            I’ve spent all evening trying to fit faces to these phantom parents. Did I live with them at any point? Which qualities did I get from my father? From my mother? Where was I born, what was I like? Did I have a name? That last thought is stunning. There might actually be a vacant identity out there that belongs to me.

            The phone rings, startling me. “Jesus, Vinny. What?”

            “Is this a bad time?” he asks.

            There’s a joking tone to his voice that I don’t feel like putting up with. Letting out a long breath, I lie back in the pillows. “No, it’s fine. The phone rang and it scared me.”

            He snorts and I hear the audible denting of an aluminum can as it’s picked up. “I have news, woman.”

            “Oh no, are you drinking? You sound like Matt when you drink.”

            Vince ignores me. “Guess who went on an _awesome_ date with an _awesome_ lady?”

            “Tony Stark.”

            “What? No silly, it’s me. Kirsten and I are dating now.”

            “So you had to celebrate by getting drunk.”

            “I am not drunk,” he says darkly.

            “Then stop drinking and it won’t happen.”

            “Okay, Ace, I’ve literally only had two beers. This is the second one, I swear.”

            “Well, then stop after this one.” I open the folder again. “So, tell me about this date.”

            It went exactly as I thought it would. They went to a fast food place- the same one he and I went to last week- only she ate his fries this time instead of me.

            “Ugh, she made you go to a rom-com?”

            “It’s what she wanted. She said she saw it on Valentine’s Day by herself, but that made it depressing as hell. So, I thought it would make her happy if we both went this time. You there?”

            “Me? Yeah I’m here.”

            “You’ve been really quiet. Everything okay?”

            I rub my eyes. “Sure…kind of.”

            “Kind of?”

            I sigh. “You remember- it was a long, long time ago- when I told you I didn’t know who my parents were? Well, I’ve been looking into that recently, and it’s just on my mind.”

            There’s a pause. “Well then share your mind, A, you can’t just keep me hanging like that. Have you found something?”

            I stare at the unpainted spot on the ceiling. “I’d rather talk about it in person.”

            “Okay. Is it…bad?”

            “I just- There’s a lot about me that I want to tell you, but it’s stuff I can’t just drop on you over the phone, know what I mean?”

            “Sure. When do you want to talk?”

            When? “How soon can I come over?”

            He chuckles. “Now is fine, Ace.”

            The door is open wide when I arrive. Stepping out he looks startled to see me. “Whoa, hey. Didn’t know if you were gonna teleport into the room or what.”

            I shush him and look down the row of doors. Sheepishly he puts a finger to his lips and beckons me in.

            “Where’s Sukraj?” I ask, noting the absence of his roommate.

            “At his parents’ for the weekend.” Vince sits down heavily on Sukraj’s bed and holds up a pack of beers. “See? Only two missing.”

            “You’re not twenty-one yet.”

            “Sukraj is.” He grins cheesily.

            I put my hand out and he fills it with a can. Sitting down on his bed, I pop it open. After taking a long drink, I shake my head loose of all its thoughts. This is going to be tough. Already Vince is thinking pretty loudly just from two drinks, and I don’t know how much I should share with him right now.

            “I still don’t know who they are.” The desired effect of alcohol lasts on me for a very short while, which is why Logan goes through so much at once. Another gulp. “Okay, brain-talk from here on out.”

            Vinny nods soberly and hands me the rest of the beers. “Go for it.”

            With a lightheaded sigh, I lean back against the wall and close my eyes. _I am very old. Very. Old._

            I open my eyes just to look at him, but he’s so intent, so innocent-looking, that I might just cry.

            _That sounds like the beginning of a punch-line, A._

            I smile and close my eyes again. _I only look young. I was born before you, but I’ve been alive even longer than that._

            He sighs heavily and sits down on the floor. Our toes touch. _I’ll go with it._

            Laughing, I take another drink, and groan. _We’ll talk about my age later. For now, know that I’m talking to someone who’s going to help me find out who I am. I’m still not sure if I have parents, but I think I do and I didn’t before._

            _You never really explained that,_ he says. _Why you thought you didn’t have parents._

            Another drink. Two. _Give me until I see him again, and I’ll explain it better. Mostly, I didn’t think I had parents because I don’t remember any. I didn’t really have a…stable childhood._

            Vinny’s absolutely quiet. In fact, I have to open my eyes to make sure he’s still there.

            _You okay?_

            _You’ve just never told me this much about you._ He scratches his ear. _Not like any of it surprises me._

            I don’t think he meant for me to hear that last bit. _I had a traumatic childhood. Suppressed memories, PTSD, and the lot._

            I finish the can, opening the next one in the same second, and for a moment get the scary premonition of turning into Logan. I’m even slouched like him, so I sit up and lean forward. Bad idea, now I’m too close to Vinny’s sad-eyed face. “Stop that.”

            He swallows and blinks. “Sorry. Keep talking.”

            _Today I found out that when I was eight, someone saw me living by myself out in the hills and called the police. But the police didn’t come for me, this…science group did._ I reach forward and pinch his nose. “Tell me if I’m getting too heavy.”

            He smiles and smacks my hand away. “Jerk. Keep talking.”

            _They did things to me. Not gross things that happen to little kids, but…they did things to me because I was mutant. I escaped, but I never knew who I was after that._

            Now I’ve definitely gone too dark. Vince glowers. _Why did you never tell me this?_

            I stare into his eyes, pretending they’re crystal caves I can get lost in if I stare hard enough. _You mean when you were human-hating? Why would I do that?_

            _What kinds of things did they do?_ he asks loudly.

            _That’s classified._ I don’t mind if it sounds semi-comical, I need him to lighten up. _The point is, I didn’t think I had parents until today because I couldn’t remember being anywhere other than that place with the scientists. I thought I came from there, I thought…I don’t know what I thought, but it involved being someone’s lab rat since the day I was conceived._

            I let out a long breath and finish my second beer. _There, that’s what’s killing me. I’m not a lab rat, I’m a lost kid with no parents, and I can’t decide which one is worse._

            There are two beers left. I take one and hand him the other, but he shakes his head. _You realize_ I’m _a lost kid with no parents._

            _You know your parents,_ I say. _Even if they are crap._

            His phone starts playing music and a split-second later mine does as well. 

            _How do you guys feel about living in Manhattan for the summer?_ reads the text.

            I write back, _Matt-hattan, is it? What’s up?_

            Vince watches the screen of his phone and gives a huff of laughter when my message appears.

            _Old apartment’s still there,_ Matt writes, _Dad didn’t sell it after all. Mom got me the keys and we’re not telling him (sh!), but I’m staying there all summer. You guys are my roomies._

            I roll my eyes and smile at Vince. “What do you think?”

            He wipes his face. “I think we don’t have much choice.”

            Replying with this, he turns off his phone. Matt confirms our move-in date to be the end of his semester, and I set my phone down and join Vince on the floor.

            “Anything else you should tell me?” he asks. “Because we’re almost out of beer, and I don’t think I can wait until the next episode.”

            I smile unconsciously. “I’ll tell you eventually. Right now I’m wondering about our upcoming adventures in Casa de Matt.”

            Vince laughs out loud. “You know he’ll just kick us out as soon as he finds another girlfriend.”

            “No, I know how to scare them off.” Popping open the last can of beer, I toss the plastic ring into the wastebasket across the room. “All his girlfriends are the same.”

            We finish off the beer, swapping stories about Matt’s girlfriends, Vince’s roommate, and everyone in our mutual acquaintance. I tell him about Scott’s leg and Madge’s bravery, about the mission and how we got cake afterward. Finally, when he’s let me finish the beer, Vince asks the question I knew was coming.

            “So, are you going to be an X-Man now?”

            I’m trying to see if I can braid my hair the way Madge did once, but I’m doing a horrible job. “I don’t know. Scott hasn’t said anything, and he’s team leader.”

            “If he does ask, do you think you’ll do it though?”

            I give up on my hair. “Probably. It’s going to stress me out now if I don’t. Scott really got hurt, and those kids…I was just glad I got to them first.”

            “Did any of them get hurt?”

            “None of mine did. There were paramedics waiting, but we left so fast I don’t know, I didn’t ask.”

            Vince pats me on the knee. “You’re awesome. Those kids know it too.”

            I smile. “Thanks. I needed that today. But don’t start being nice to me just because I told you about when I was a kid.”

            “Don’t worry I’ll be as mean to you as I always am.”

            “I think Madge has a crush on Matt.”

            _“What?_ Oh no, did you tell her? You have to tell her about girlfriend number three.”

            “We liked girlfriend number three, she’s the smart one. No, your girlfriend number three is different than mine, remember? You’re thinking of girlfriend number five.”

            “Ace, _don’t let Madge have a crush on him._ We both know that’s a bad idea.” He leans his head back against the bed. “Also, I kinda thought she had a crush on me.”

            At this I burst out laughing. “Why _you_ , Don Juan?”

            “Well she was always really sweet to me.”

            “Madge is sweet to everybody, that’s her thing.” I rub my eyes. “I wouldn’t worry about it in any case, they never see each other.”

            “Whatever.” He checks his alarm clock. “Alright, get out of here, I gotta go to bed.”

            I get up and look for my phone. “Sleep tight, dweeb.”

            Vince chuckles as he gathers his bathroom things. “You know, earlier tonight when you were drinking you reminded me of Logan, and now you’re calling me names like he does.”

            “Logan calls you names?”

            “Ace, he calls everyone names.” He smirks. “That’s his thing.”

            I make sure to stick out my tongue as I leave.


	41. Chapter 41

            The whiskey screams down my throat, and when I cough into my arm I still smell like diesel. Today’s mission sucked. “So why _do_ you do this? How did it get started?”

            Hank yawns broadly in his cushy armchair and Storm chuckles softly, running her fingers through her damp hair. “Charles started it as a lesson in humanity, in caring for our fellow man even if he hated us.”

            “ _Caring_ has gotten out of hand,” mumbles Logan into his bottle. Getting gouged puts him in an ornery mood.

            I cough once more and something sharp stabs my side. After a quick search I find a left over shard of glass. “Is it always that…active?”

            “Why do you think we brought you?” Logan growls. “Don’t need the extra help on peaceful ops.”

            I drop the shard in my empty shot glass. “Thanks.”

            “Where’s Slim?” Logan asks, ignoring me. “He still with Chuck?”

            “No,” Storm rubs sleep out of her eyes, “Xavier’s in a meeting, Scott hasn’t seen him yet.”

            “Meeting with who?”

            “Board member based on his appearance.” Storm crooks her brow and reaches out to wipe something off Logan’s temple. “He had an appointment.”

            “What’s a board member doing around this time of year?” Logan scrunches his forehead and scratches the spot Storm touched.

            “Everyone in school thinks being an X-Man means being king of the hill,” I say, carrying on with the previous conversation. “There was plenty of competition during Danger sessions.”

            Logan snorts derisively. “They all want to play ‘Danger Room’. Then they run away in the first week.”

            I make a face as I search for the footrest with my feet. “They’re running away from _you_.”

            Hank is snoring lightly, so Storm nudges him. Sputtering, Hank removes his glasses and sits up. “Lecture. What time is it?”

            Storm and I look at the clock. “Ten to ten.”

            Hank gives a relieved sigh and rubs his eyes. “Tell Jean I’ll be down there afterwards.”

            Storm nods gently as Hank gets up. He smacks Logan on the shoulder with one heavy, blue mitt. “Don’t guzzle it all before I get back.”

            “Don’t snore during your lecture.” Logan finishes his beer.

 

            There’s a neat stack of novels in the nurses’ station with ribbons holding her place in each.

            “Are you reading _all_ of those?”

            Madge glances up from the back counter. “Yes?”

            “At once?”

            She gives me a round-eyed look. “Is this an intervention?”

            “Damn right it is, talk to me.”

            Her mouth drops open and she clicks her tongue. “I’ve never heard you swear.”

            Slightly ashamed. “I’m sure I’ve done it before. Hey, Matt’s got this apartment in- Oh wait, you live in Iowa during the summer don’t you?”

            “You’ve already told me about your super-fun apartment plans.” Madge comes back to the desk with a stack of papers she’s sorting through. “It’s not fair by the way. I don’t even think my sibs are coming home for the summer, just me- Oh, rats.”

            She sets the papers down on the desk and hastily separates one out. “Jean needed the Professor to sign this yesterday, I totally forgot.” She looks at her novels disconsolately.

            I ease the paper out of her hand. “I’ll take it up to him. You get back to whatever the Bennett sisters are up to.”

            “It’s _Persuasion_ , but okay.” She smiles thankfully. “Don’t let Jean see you, yeah?”

            “You act like she disciplines you.”

            “Well, she gets flustered and I hate doing that to her.”

            I stand in the doorway. “Madge, _you_ get flustered.”

            “But not like _her_. Have you seen one of her episodes?”

            I blink. “What do you mean?”

            Madge crosses her arms uncomfortably. “Never mind. Just get that to Xavier for me?”

            Upstairs, I knock on the open office door and head to his desk. “Hey, Professor, Jean needs you to sign this.”

            As he takes the paper, I notice a familiar, yet out of place scent in the room. Not too many people enter Xavier’s office on a daily basis. Storm mentioned a visit from a board member today, but I make a point of avoiding the board members when they visit, so I can’t know their scents.

            Xavier smiles and hands me back the paper. “Thank you, Ace.”

            I’m nearly to the door when I recognize it. Turning, I stare at Xavier.

            He sighs. “Yes, Ace, he was here.”

            My blood first runs cool, then hot. “What did he want?”

            “To corroborate your story, apparently.”

            “What did he _tell_ you?” Wrong question, Coulson doesn’t tell. “What did you _hear?”_

            “Nothing you haven’t already told me yourself,” he replies tiredly.

            I try to hide my relief, but it does little good. “I’m sorry, Professor. I’m not actively trying to keep things from you.”

            His features soften. “I understand. I didn’t know you were still in contact with him. Have you made any progress?”

            I scratch my cheek. “Some. I haven’t found many answers though.”

            “Will you see him again?”

            “I hope so.” That was too eager. “What did you think of him?”

            Xavier inhales deeply and sits back. “As a person? He’s a good man, decisive. From his questions he seemed to have a high interest in you personally. Have you settled on some form of exchange for this information he supplies you?”

            “Not exactly.” Xavier had advised against taking on SHIELD’s mission, so I won’t tell him about it. “I think he’s considering recruitment.”

            After a moment of thought, Xavier nods in agreement. “Logical. He’s essentially doing a lengthy background check.”

            Except SHIELD wouldn’t hire a mutant. I wave the sheet I had him sign. “Well, I’ve got to get this back downstairs.”

            He sets his pen aside. “Come back and talk to me when you have the time.”

            It’s more of a request than a command.

           

            Logan hovers over my shoulder. “California, huh? You moving?”

            Opening a blank webpage, I exhale, irritated. “Coulson found that it’s where I was picked up before Alkali.”

            Still hovering. “So why are you looking up photos? Trying to jog your memory?”

            “No, I’m just…Go away.”

            He grumbles something about my attitude and leaves the lab. I reopen the search engine I had up when he arrived. Searching “California foothills” wasn’t as life-altering as I’d hoped it would be. The photos consist mainly of endless yellow acres sprouting oaks, rock, and wildflowers. Toward the bottom of the page is one photo of the same scenery on an overcast day. I enlarge it, see the dark storm clouds looming beyond the hilltops, and for a brief second smell the dampness of the air, the sweetness of the dry grass- intense melancholy nearly overwhelmed by a more exquisite peace settling upon my head and shoulders.

            In the next second the sensation has passed.

 

            “It’s really nice meeting you.” Bright smile as she pumps my hand. “I’m sorry, but when Vince talked about you the first few times, I kept thinking you were a guy because of your name.”

            I laugh, automatically scrutinizing Kirsten the way I do all Matt’s disposables. I’m reassured when she doesn’t fit the type. “Sorry to take him away from you so soon. I thought he’d stay out here longer for break.”

            "Stop talking about me while I’m not in the room,” Vince exclaims, coming back in from outside.

            “Don’t worry I didn’t show her any baby pictures,” I tease.

            He kneels down to dig something out from under his bed. “You don’t have any of my baby pictures.”

            It hadn’t occurred to me those might actually exist. Kirsten reaches for a pair of sneakers. “You looking for your Adidas?”

            Vince wears Converse.

            “No, I can’t find my- Found ‘em.” He reemerges from beneath the bed and holds up some battered high tops.

            “Are those the ones Matt bought you in high school?” I ask.

            Vince studies them for a minute, then nods in the affirmative. “Yep, because the rubber’s melted here from when I stood too close to a burn barrel.”

            Kirsten puts the Adidas down, and I ponder when Vince would’ve been snuggling up to a burn barrel. First baby pictures, now burn barrels. “You all set then?”

            Vince gives the dorm another look, mentally checking things off, then nods.

            “Alright, well I’ve got to get going too,” says Kirsten, heading for the door. On her way out, she goes to give Vince a kiss on the cheek, but he turns his head and her kiss lands awkwardly on his lips. They laugh it off, but internally I cringe. 

            As soon as she’s gone, Vince says, “Hey, sorry about the ‘Ace’ thing, I forgot you’re Amy in public.”

            I shrug and throw his duffel over my shoulder. “Shall we?”

            He scans the closed blinds before putting an arm around me for the jump.

            Before he’s even settled, Vince disappears to greet Xavier. The two of them end up talking for over an hour. Logan gets whiff that he’s back, and I catch them snickering in the kitchen like fiends. Matt texts him constantly, inviting him to the movies before they both have to start classes again, and already I can see my time with Vince is limited. Thus I groan when I get a SHIELD text sending me to Arizona in the morning.

            The walls of the airbase lunchroom are made of glass, looking out over the small tarmac in the middle of the red desert. No one else is in the building, and as far as surveillance goes this appears to be a secure stopover location where the only recording devices are the ones you bring with you.

            The vending machine around the corner rattles and clinks. I sit up from my slouch and tuck my hair behind my ear.

            Coulson smiles when he turns the corner carrying a heavy file in one hand, and a soda in the other. “That’s a good color on you.”

            My shirt is a dark shade of blue, and I thought much the same, but wasn’t expecting a compliment. “You visited?”

            He crooks his brow. “I was told you were out.”

            “I came back.”

            He sets the soda can in front of me. “You don’t mind cola do you?”

            First a compliment, and now soda. “You have bad news.”

            Sitting down, he sighs gently. “Araceli Ortega.”

            An old door creaks open. “What?”

            “That’s your name.” He opens the file on the table and points to a school photo attached by paperclip to a birth certificate. A dark-haired kindergartener beams into the camera with a smile that is unmistakably mine. Araceli Ortega: born June 21st, 1976 in Modesto, California to Julia Ortega Buell and Rodrigo Ortega.

            I don’t know what to say. The photo has me spooked. “How did you find me?”

* * *

 

            “In 1982 you were reported missing. You and your parents had just returned home from a two-day trip, but in the morning you couldn’t be found. The front door was open and you were apparently known to sleep walk from time-to-time, but this was your first time ‘walking’ outside.”

           Coulson holds the file in front of him, reading the details carefully. “After not finding you for three days the police reported it an abduction case. Two suspects were later held in custody, but were released without charge.” He lets out a long, low breath, less than eager to relay the rest of the report. “After six months a memorial service was held and the case went cold.”

            Ace runs her tongue over her teeth. “Where was the trip to?”

            Analytical. “According to Mr. Ortega, it was to visit friends in Chico, but there was a change in plans. Instead, the three of you went sightseeing in the Sacramento area before driving home.”

            She exhales slowly and watches the file as if it were about to run away. “Let me guess how close that is to where Alkali found me.”

            Coulson clasps his hands beside the file. For a while, Ace doesn’t say anything else.

“Were my parents ever suspects in this case?”

            “Not on record.”

            She appears nonchalant and points to the folder. “I still have my baby teeth in the photo.”

            Coulson doesn’t make the connection until she smiles, showing him her canines. Then the smile vanishes into a dry expression. “Either I hadn’t mutated yet, or I hadn’t developed that mutation. How old am I, five?”

            There was never clear motive for her parents to be implicated before. “In the photo, yes.”

            Ace sighs heavily, nostrils flaring, and tilts the chair back. “They aren’t still alive are they?”

            A red flag goes up in the back of his mind. “Both still reside in California.”

            “They have any other kids?” She hasn’t looked up from the table in several minutes, still tilting the chair back.

            “No,” he pulls out a legal document, “in 1984 they separated. He remarried in 1990, but she remains single.”  

            The chair is back on all four feet, but Ace still grips the edge of the table with one hand. “Did _he_ have any-?”

             “No.”

            She nods absentmindedly. “So, I’ve been dead this whole time.” She looks up at him and smiles flatly. “Twice over, thanks to Alkali.”

He closes the folder. “You now have a choice. You can reassume the identity of Araceli Ortega, or you can continue…under your alias.” Coulson looks her in the eye and hopes she picks up on the message. _Get out of here. You’re free._

 

* * *

 

            I’ve been free. Free because I was emancipated when I was six, free because I was no one in a foreign country, free as an inter-universal fugitive. I’ve had all the freedom I’ll ever need. What Coulson means, what he ironically implies, is that I’m now free of SHIELD.

            “I’m not done being Ace.” I cross my legs. “Araceli doesn’t mean anything to me.”

            Coulson nods. “Understood. I would’ve advised you to do the same.”

            “Now what do you want from me?” I study his face for the fiftieth time. He was handsome as a young man, but in an unconventional way that often went unnoticed. Vince has those kinds of looks. “You’ve given me all this information, done all this extra research, made all these extra miles-”

            “They weren’t really out of my way. Your teleporting ability makes these things more convenient.”

            “What do you want in exchange?”

            His expression borders on admiration. “Aside from the Triskelion break-in and the Alkali break-out, what other trouble have you gotten into?”

* * *

 

            Ace glances into the corner of the room. “As who?”

            “Whoever you’ve been, but primarily Ace.”

            She looks at him oddly. It must be something he said. “It’s not trouble I got into, but I witnessed it.” Then after a long pause, she asks, “Did SHIELD cover up the Brown murders?”

            His phone hums and Coulson checks it hastily. “You witnessed the Brown murders?”

            Coulson had nothing to do with that case. He’s pretty sure he was on assignment in New Mexico around that time. It isn’t high level, he could probably acquire the details over the phone. But relating any information concerning it to a non-agent is restricted. “Yes, SHIELD covered that case, but I was not on it.”

            Ace is scrutinizing him. There’s a faint sensation inside his head, something he can feel on the inside of his skull. It’s a bit like static. “I need to know why John Allerdyce was there."

            None of the victim’s names were released to the public, that much he knows. The cover-up had been part of an effort to conceal cases of violent mutants and other unique individuals from the public eye. There was already so much fear-mongering within the media, the last thing people needed was validation. A small spark to a lake of gasoline.

            “Why was it covered up?” she asks, reading his thoughts.

Coulson pauses. Such a blasé use of that phrase. “Ace, how did you acquire my clearance?”

            She raises a brow. “I never told you?”

            He retains his casual composure as he shakes his head. She watches him carefully.

            “I’m psychic.”

            She says it drily, almost sarcastically, delivering the truth in a pseudo humorous capsule making it easier to swallow.

            “This probably annoys you, but what I am I thinking right now?” An irking question phrased as a modest query. Hopefully her reaction can determine her honesty.

            Ace shakes her head, folds her arms, and rests them on the table. “You’ve been considering recruiting me these last couple months, but you’ve never brought it up. Why?”

            He swallows. “You’re a conundrum, and I need all the facts.”

            “You do? Or SHIELD does?”

            He feels that static again. “I do.”

            Her eyes look down at the table. “You already know I don’t have a clean slate, plus unresolved mental disorders and an aversion to your organization.” She stares at him. “None of that is desirable in a trustworthy asset.”

            “Not all our assets are trustworthy,” he points out. “Besides, none of that concerns me.”

            “Then what concerns you?”

            “How instinct factors into your decisions.” Coulson leans forward. “For instance, what caused you to kill those first two men at Alkali?”

            She flinches. Guilt. “I don’t remember killing them.”

            “What would drive you to kill?”

            Reaching across, she pulls the folder towards her and studies the photo. “Fear. I know how to get away without killing, and I’ve never been greedy, so not personal gain or self-defense. Perhaps revenge, but I know better than to follow that path.”

            Sufficient liar, except her hands trembled on that last statement. “What have you done out of revenge, Ace?”

            Her eyes catch him sharply and she narrows them. “Find out what you don’t know about Brown. I’ll be right here.”

* * *

 

            He made the phone call on the opposite side of the building where I couldn’t overhear it. As he re-enters the lunchroom he states, “John Allerdyce was a member of the subversive mutant group-”

            “Brotherhood of Mutants,” I finish impatiently.

            “Right. There’s no conclusive evidence that tells us why he was there that night, but his appearance wasn’t surprising. A certain political target was enrolled at Brown at the time. We suspect Allerdyce was there to kill them.”

            My stomach cramps. There are very few political reasons Pyro would have to kill someone. “I take it the Church of Humanity was there with similar intentions?”

            “In their case SHIELD has more background. We were aware ahead of time what their intentions were, though the fact that they sent members there that night wasn’t known to us until too late. They were at the university for the same target, but in seeing Allerdyce they apparently changed their prerogative.”

            The Church is anti-mutant, the Brotherhood pro-mutant. The politics of the target clearly must have been related. And of all the nights to stage an assassination, they chose one of the biggest party nights of the year when their target would either be exposed or alone. How many mutants could possibly live in those dorms? There were nearly a hundred students at the party Matt and I attended, and out of all of them I _know_ we were the only mutants.

            A mixture of horror and rage builds in my throat and breaks down my patience for subtlety. Bluntly, I ask, “Was the political target Matthew Larson?”

            This is the first time I’ve ever seen Coulson startled. Then he’s furious. “You did _not_ just go into my head to find that.”

            My stomach turns, my limbs tremble. I look away and swallow a few times before I finally get up and walk to one of the windows. The red desert sprawls. Such an empty planet. “Is he safe now? The bill failed, so is he still a target?” When he doesn’t reply I look back at him. “Coulson?”

            “How do you know Larson?”

            “He’s my friend we went to Xavier’s together.” I take a calming breath. “John went there too, but he was gone by the time I enrolled.”

            “Did Larson know him?”

            I shake my head. “Matt was a year younger than him; they weren’t acquainted.”

            “Were you visiting Larson that night?” Coulson asks.

            I nod, remembering I told Matt it had nothing to do with him. “But is he safe now?”

            “I can’t know, Ace. After what happened to the victims, no trouble has been reported surrounding Larson.” His phone trills again, but he silences it. “SHIELD had an undercover agent there that night posing as another student. He’s been keeping an eye on Larson, he still is. If anything were wrong, it’s his job to report it immediately.”

            “Where the hell was he that night then?”

            “At the party, with Larson…and you I suppose.”

            I shuffle through the names, faces, and voices I recall from that night. I would’ve noticed an agent, I must’ve noticed them. What was that one guy’s name, the guy Matt thought I was flirting with? Joseph? Jacob. Only sober person there and he knew I didn’t belong.

            “I left early,” I begin, giving my part of the bargain. “There’s a path I take when I visit Matt. I heard a fight happening in the trees where it was dark. I recognized John, from a photo I’d seen. I shouted to get their attention, but then they shot him and ran.

            “I used my sweater to stop the blood, badly, but there was nothing else I could do. He just died like that.” Sometimes, I still feel his last thoughts and emotions eddying within my own consciousness, as though he still exists safe inside my head. How bizarre to be encoded in the mind of a complete stranger long after your death.

            “You’re the Good Samaritan,” says Coulson with an air of discovery. “There was evidence someone had attempted first aid before the paramedics got there.”

            Slowly, I return to the table and ease myself into my seat. “Once he was dead, I got nervous. I didn’t want the police asking my name." I clench my jaw. “I didn’t know he was there to kill my friend.” 

            “If you had,” Coulson begins, “and he’d been shot, would you still have helped him?”

            That’s not something I want to think about right now. I want to call Matt- No, I want to see him and give him grief for almost getting murdered.

            Coulson’s phone vibrates on the table, and he finally picks it up. “I hate to leave like this.”

            “No, that’s fine.” The words sound like they’re coming from somewhere else. “Um, do we need to meet again? Is this it?”

            “It doesn’t have to be,” he says, standing up and buttoning his jacket. He lifts the file and raises an eyebrow.

            “I don’t need it,” I say. “Actually, could I have the photo?”

            That naïve little face is slipped into my pocket.

            “I’ll be on assignment for the next month or so,” he tells me. “I won’t be able to contact you in that time or do any further research. Can you wait that long?”

            I nod. “Where are you going?”

            He smiles. “Greenland. No convenient meeting places there unfortunately.”

            My first thought is losing him to frostbite. I look at my hands. “Dress warm.”

            “I’ll try to remember.” He comes around the table and taps the soda can. “Not your favorite?”

            Smiling, I take the can and push my seat back. “I’ll find a use for it.”

            He’s given me a soda, an old photo, my past, and an identity. I could hug him. Instead, I put out my hand, bracing myself for whatever emotional transference that might incur. “Thank you, for all you’ve done for me. I really do appreciate it.”

            Coulson smiles modestly and takes my hand. “Glad I could be of help.”

            The emotion transfer and the tone of his voice cause me to look carefully at him. “What did you talk to Xavier about?”

            “Your character.”

            I was afraid he’d say that.

            “Don’t worry,” he presses a hand to my shoulder, “he said some very promising things. I’ll contact you when I get back.”

            I nod. “You said a month or so?”

            He shrugs as he puts his phone to his ear. “Hopefully.”


	42. Chapter 42

            Ace has been gone for hours. Vince noted her absence this morning when he went to wake her. Now it’s nearing dinner and still no sign of her. Everyone’s used to her sudden and unannounced departures, but since the suicide attempt last summer Logan won't risk taking her for granted.

            Then Jean comes in from the stables brushing her hair back from her brow, looking lovely and in a good mood. She touches his shoulder. “She’s out there. I think she’s getting ready for dinner.”

            Sure enough, Ace and Vince are joking around at their own table, mostly inaudibly as they’ve gotten into that telepathic habit. They made up so fast after Vincent’s desertion even Logan was left a little surprised.

            When he sees her next, Ace is in the staff kitchen having a late coffee by herself. She watches him out of the corner of her eye as he approaches and sits across from her at the table.

            “Where’ve you been?”

            Generally annoyed by frank questioning, tonight she seems complacent. “I went back to Bella Coola, just to walk in the woods.” The steam from the mug clouds her nostrils as she takes a drink. “I can’t think when I’m here.”

            It’s rarely a good thing when she takes nine hours to think. “How’re you doing?”

            Ace shrugs. “I found out who my parents are.”

            If there are effective curses for that kind of news, they’re hard in coming. “Yeah? What’d you find?”

            “They’re still alive, but they didn’t want me. So Alkali found me.”

            Logan grips his glass. “I’m sorry, darlin’.”

            Her jaw is tight. “It’s better than what I thought happened.”

            He clears his throat. “How did Coulson know where to look?”

            “He studied the paper trail backwards.” She takes something out of her jeans pocket and hands it to him. “I didn’t expect him to find me so soon, but he does have better resources.”

            Logan stares hard at the photo she gives him, the child it portrays looking healthy and happy. The young woman sitting in front of him holds her chin in her hand, staring at the back of the photo with a bored expression. She’s always had more patience than him.

            “Did he say what happened to them?”

            Ace lowers her hand. “They divorced. He remarried. No other kids, supposedly.”

            Logan slides the photo back across the table. “And you don’t know how you feel?”

            She stares at her picture. “I know how I feel.”

* * *

 

            I think Vince expected me to cry when I told him. It didn’t hurt, not in the way I thought it would, so I didn’t cry. It was the gentle way he entered my mind afterward that made me feel weak.

            “Why do you always put up with my troubles?” I ask.

            Vince sighs and rolls over on the bed. “I’m not putting up with anything. Why did you put up with me all through high school?”

            I snort. “Because someone had to.”

            He plays with the ends of my hair that are still on the bed from when I slid off and onto the floor. “I knew he’d do it, but it was still scary when my stepdad finally kicked me out. Are you going to try and find them?”

            “Hell no. They think I’m dead, let’s keep it that way.”

            “So walk in the front door and watch them faint.”

            “They wouldn’t recognize me.”

            “You probably look like them. Maybe your mom looked just like you at this age-”

            “God,  _stop_. I don’t want to think about these people, I don’t want to know if I look like them, or think like them, I don’t want to _be them_.”

            He clenches my shoulder and I tense up.

            “I’m sorry.” He relaxes his hold gradually. “Let’s talk about something else.”

            Like the fact that Matt almost got killed. No, I can’t bring that up. I don’t want to worry him unnecessarily. On the other hand, if anyone knows why Pyro was there that night, it’s probably Vince. Does he know about the plot to kill Matt? Maybe that wasn’t even the intention, maybe Pyro was there for another reason altogether.  

            “You’re stressing out again,” Vince says. “Let me in.”

            “Tell me more about your step-dad,” I say hastily. “Tell me about when you got thrown out. Where did you go?”

            He continues playing with my hair ends, rubbing one between his thumbs. “My cousin’s house.”

            “The same cousin who took you to a crack house later?”

            “Yup, same guy,” he replies disinterestedly.

            I notice his shoes by the door. “When were you by a burn barrel?”

            “What?”

            “You said part of your shoe melted when you stood too close to a burn barrel.” As I say it I realize it must’ve been when he was on the run from Brotherhood. Except, it was summertime and certainly not cold enough for someone to need that kind of heat source long enough to melt their shoes. “Vinny, how long were you running from Brotherhood before you called us?”

            “Why?” he asks guardedly.

            I turn my head to look at him. “Because I was worried about you.”

            He shakes his head. “It was something like a month.”

            John died a month before we picked up Vince. “Why didn’t you call soon-”

            “Because I didn’t think anybody would come, okay? I’d given you all the finger, and felt I didn’t have any right coming back.” With an angry sigh he sits up. “That and it took a while to find Matt’s new number again.”

            Again? Right, he called Matt back in March, but hung up fast. “When you called Matt the first time, were you trying to come home then?”

            Vince looks a little confused. “Oh. I forgot…about that. I guess I was homesick.”

            Why is he lying? He did forget the call that much is true, but…Maybe he’s telling the truth as best he can. He hates his past and is always trying to bury it instead of working it out. I’m obviously guilty of that, and I lie often to enable it. For being his best friend, I lie to Vince far more than he lies to me. No wonder he doesn’t trust me enough to be honest with me.

            “Hey, I’m going to try and be more open like I have been,” I say. “I was the quiet one in high school, but that’s because I didn’t know who I was. Or I did, and I didn’t want to be that person anymore. So I didn’t tell anybody much of anything about my old life because I was trying to push it away, not pull it back. I see you doing the same thing, and I want to help. So when you’re ready- if you’re ever ready- to tell me these things, I’m here.”

            I stare at my hands in my lap and listen carefully to his breathing. “And if you find someone you’d rather tell, like Kirsten or somebody after her, that’s fine obviously. I’m not trying to hold you here.”

            “I know,” Vince replies softly, fiddling with a woven bracelet Kirsten gave him. “I appreciate that.”

            I let out a low breath. “Hey, how was Matt? You guys saw a movie without me.”

            Vince smirks. “Matt’s fine. Same as ever. Seemed real happy to see me.”

            I pull my hair back now that he’s done messing with it. “I haven’t heard much from him in the last few months, I got worried.”

            “Nah, he’s fine. You know he’s studying music now, right?”

            “What? You’re kidding.”

            “He, uh, got a job at his dad’s company around New Year's, and is paying for some of his own classes now. So he’s majoring in music too.”

            “That jerk hasn’t told me any of that.” I sit up on the bed. “That can’t be good news for his dad.”

            Vince makes a face. “No, no I don’t think so. They’re not doing so well, he and his dad.”

            Considering his dad almost got him killed. I blur that thought out before Vince hears it. “I’ll call him later today and see how he’s doing.”

 

            Matt picks up after the fifth ring. “Kinda busy.”

            “Hey, Mattie, I haven’t talked to you in a while.”

            “Hey,” his voice is harried, “we’ll talk later then, yeah?”

            I pause. “You’re with a girl aren’t you?”

            “‘Kay, bye.”

            I throw the phone at the bed. Unless his senior-girl hooker is an assassin, he’s fine.

            True to his word, I don’t hear from Coulson for weeks. It’s nearly May and my head is still swimming with the subjects of our last meeting. I am satisfied by the finalization of my identity as Ace, I just wish I’d picked a better name. I didn’t expect this one to last so long.

            If Araceli was the girl before Alkali, and the girl who escaped into space was someone altogether different, who is Ace? Is Ace that part of me that killed those men at Brown? Or was that left over from my violent Alkali days? My peace training thereafter effectively covered up whatever damage was done at the facility, thereby helping me to forget much of what had happened. My mind is a veritable fossil record of shored up memories. Peeling back the layers of ugly wallpaper to find the drywall beneath unleashes decades of mildew and toxins. Most toxic of all, the memory of my once normal life with my once loving parents seems to be buried deepest. I still can’t remember anything from that era. Even my school photo holds no kind of sensory recall.

            “But that’s not why you’re here today.”

            Xavier observes me calmly with a gaze I’ve grown used to.

            I take a few seconds to start, still quietly debating whether or not to get up and walk away. “It’s about something I’ve done. Coulson and I are in lieu of discussing it, but before we do I feel I should confide in you first. You know John Allerdyce died at Brown University last spring.”

            He stares hard at me, or perhaps past me. “Yes, I am aware.”

            I forgo any apologetic acknowledgment of his feelings. “I was there when he got shot. I tried to save him as the perpetrators ran off, but all I could do was make him comfortable.”

            I clench my hands so tight I can feel each bone. “His murderers were a half-mile away by the time emergency services arrived, but I caught up. The one with the gun was in the lead, so I went through the other four to get to him. He aimed the gun at me, but I went _into_ his head and commanded his hand to move making sure he was entirely conscious of what I was doing. He- I pulled the trigger. He’d been lying there for a few seconds when I realized what I’d done.”

            Xavier’s gaze has turned grave. “Ace, why are you telling me this?”

            Maybe this was a selfish idea and I’m only endangering him, but he deserves to know who’s living under his roof. “I need your help. I don’t understand what happened that night, but I’ve been pushing it to the back of my mind all year. I’m trying to understand myself, but for that to happen I have to know who I was that night and why I did what I did _._

            With some determination, Xavier sighs and leans back in his seat. “Tell it to me again, but this time go slowly, add detail.”

            Taking a deep breath, I try again. “I was at a party with Matt. I left early. In the dark, there was a fight. I went to investigate-”

            “Ace,” he puts out his hand, “slowly.”

            I close my eyes. “There were five men. I recognized Pyro’s scent from that time I saw him in the woods. There was kerosene running in tubes up his sleeves that he was using to fuel his fires. He was about to kill the four men that were attacking him, so I rushed to put the fires out. This distracted Pyro, and two of them used that moment to attack him from behind and cut the fuel lines.

            “Someone in the buildings pulled a fire alarm, and then I noticed one of the men had a gun. There were screams when it went off, twice, once at me, and the four of them ran into the trees. I lifted John’s shoulders until the ambulance finally got there. I tried to talk to him in his head because I knew he wasn’t going to make it. Then his thoughts disappeared.

            “At first I thought it was his consciousness mixing with mine that triggered me to follow those men. I followed their scent, teleporting to catch up. I didn’t feel in possession of myself, but I knew exactly what I was doing and how to do it.

            “When I did catch up, they were in the unloading area behind a commercial warehouse, still running.”

            Here Xavier interrupts me, “Where were they running to?”

            My eyes blink open. Where?

            “Close your eyes again,” he tells me, “and think about why they were running. Did they know you were chasing them?”

            Eyes closed, I shake my head and bite my tongue.

            Xavier leans forward in his seat. “Visualize the scene and think about where they were running.”

            I mentally crop the five men out of the scene. The alley is dimly lit by a streetlamp and a light over a delivery entrance. The ground is damp and grainy, pockmarked by a few puddles left from a two-day-old rainstorm. A red light reflects in the puddle nearest me. This is puzzling, since I know the men were blocking most of the light in this area.

            Then I remember headlights briefly illuminated the building across the street as a car pulled off the curb and into the road. It was the taillight I saw reflected in the water. Who was parked there at that hour? Did the murderers know they were there? I’d already killed the first two men by the time I saw the taillight’s reflection, but overlooked these details in the heat of the moment. The fourth man was nearly to the sidewalk when I stopped him.

            “Who was in the car?” I ask aloud opening my eyes. “Was it their getaway and it left without them?”

            Xavier watches me closely, waiting for me to come to the answer on my own. He always has this expression of seeming to know the answer, and sometimes I wish he’d just tell me. “How did the men react? Did you see anyone get in or out?”

            I sigh heavily and close my eyes again. “It was around the corner, I couldn’t see anything but the lights. The men were running away from the campus, to the street.”

            “How were they running? Did it seem like they were escaping?”

            No, in fact I sensed little fear among them aside from the one who’d suffered the brunt of Pyro’s attack. And they hadn’t begun their escape once the fire alarm was pulled, but waited long enough to shoot him before leaving. It seems ridiculous to assume they had a getaway car so far from the intended crime, but the nearest parking lots were crammed full and impractical for a quick escape. Perhaps they hadn’t meant to get away after finding Matt. Their organization tends to revel in the media spotlight, and this might have been an opportunity to flaunt their cause.

            However, they didn’t accomplish that. A mutant was killed, an acolyte of Magneto no less, but not their target. Yet this failure didn’t seem to faze them because wherever they were running they clearly weren’t anxious. The driver of that car, on the other hand, pulled out of there in a hurry.

            “Someone came with Pyro.” I pause. “I can’t recall their scent, another mutant no doubt.”

            I strain my sensory memory to find that scent, that person who _must_ have run down that alley to the getaway car. A sixth person, a sixth witness, exactly what I need. 

            “The gunman still had his weapon drawn.” I rub my eyes. “That’s why he was at the front, to kill whoever was getting into that car.”

            I look at Xavier, facing me full on, no desk or chess board between us, just empty space. He’s watching me with an even gaze, waiting. Waiting.

            “No.” I shake my head. “No, no. It wasn’t him.”

            His kind features are grieved.

            “No- I know why they were there, why the church- They were going to kill…to kill Matt.” Everything in his expression tells me he knows the rest of the story. I bite my lip and stare hard at him, willing it to be untrue. “That’s not fair. That’s not fair, no. He couldn’t have been there.”

            “Ace-”

            “You’re wrong, he wasn’t there.”

            “Vincent told me himself, Ace.”

            I bite down hard until my teeth hurt. “You’re wrong.”

            “You have to talk to him yourself.”

            “No, Professor.” I glare at him. “There is no way in hell he was there that night.”

            Xavier seems to sink in his chair. “Matthew and Vincent are still alive, Ace-”

            “No.”

            “-because you put yourself in harm’s way-”

            “No, don’t excuse what I did, what I did was _disgusting_. I murderedfour men in cold blood with the training I received from that sadistic-”

            “Had you not interfered on behalf of the lives of others either John would have killed those men and then Matthew, or they would’ve killed him and your two friends.”

            “Stop. Talking.” I’m twisting and coiling inside. “Stop telling me what might’ve happened, I’m already sick from what did happen.”

            “Ace,” he moves his seat forward, “look at me. You want to understand yourself? I’ve been your teacher and friend for nearly six years now, and I can tell you that what you did, you did out of compassion and instinct. Instinct told you lives were at stake, and compassion moved you to act.”

            I shake my head. “But I didn’t know about Matt and Vince.”

            “You tried to save those men,” Xavier is quick to point out. “Then you tried to save John. You knew without a doubt what he was capable of, and you knew that what those men were doing was wrong. That, my dear, is the sign of a healthy conscience. I am not unaware of the implications of your actions thereafter, but from observing you and Logan I know what to expect when circumstances reach a breaking point. You are both instinct driven, and while I can’t fathom your joint experience at Alkali, I understand the effects are long-lasting. You will be continually struggling with that side of you, but I have faith in your ability to overcome.”

            He’s asking me to believe in something impossible. I wipe my eyes for the third time since he began speaking. “You should be upset with me. I know better than this, I’m more controlled than this, _you_ taught me that. Sometimes when I’m working with the kids, I’ll remember that night and feel so ugly that I want to hide myself. I’ve never felt I should be trusted, and now I _know_ I shouldn’t. John did something terrible to us, but I didn’t want him to die for it. So I killed people, the people I’d just tried to save, because I couldn’t save him. I lost it and I can’t take that back.”

            “Ace, John needed much more than I could give him, and in the end I failed him. To know that one of my students could be there for him in his last moments,” he takes a shuddering breath, “is a heavy weight off my shoulders. I know that, with you, he was in good hands.

            “When I first met you I knew you were an important person, and I trusted you as such. Since then, you’ve done nothing to break that trust. You don’t have to hide anymore.”

            Everything I’ve ever stood up around me collapses in a second.


	43. Chapter 43

            “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I promise I’m okay.”

            Hearing Matt’s voice over the phone reminds me he exists somewhere tangible. God, I miss seeing him every day, even the bad days when he drove me nuts. “Vince says you’re studying music?”

            “Yeah. I didn’t tell you? I’m actually composing some stuff for class, and it is freaking paradise compared to all that econ quackery.”

            “But weren’t you close to getting your BA?”

            Matt huffs cynically. “I’ll still get it, probably. The only reason I’m putting on the brakes as far as the econ major goes is Dad wants me to complete it in England.”

            Good, you’ll be safer there. “You don’t want to go to England?”

            There’s a pause. “I’m twenty-one, he can’t just ship me off like I’m eight.”

            “Then show him you’re not eight. Do what an adult would do and make an intelligent decision. If you see reason to studying in England, study in England.”

            “You really think I should?”

            “If _you_ think you should, yes. Don’t pass on something that might benefit you just because your dad is in favor of it.” And don’t pass on your dad, even if he is a control-freak. “Who knows, you might love England.”

            “Won’t you miss me?”

            “I already miss you. And it won’t hurt to learn how to teleport overseas.” I might even fall in the ocean once or twice. Exhilarating. “This is about you.”

            He huffs dismissively. “So, about the apartment. Could you go in and see if the furniture is still there? It just occurred to me last week that he might’ve moved the rest of that stuff out, and I haven’t had time to drive down and check.”

            “Sure. If I move some stuff in now, would it be safe to leave it there?”

            “Probably. What kind of stuff?”

            “Household stuff. If it might not have furniture, it definitely won’t have toilet paper.”

            Matt laughs. “You’re too practical. Yeah, come over right now and I’ll get you the key.”

            Not that I need the key, but the hug and broad grin I receive when I arrive are all I wanted. Then he gives me a soft kiss on the cheek, and the sweetness dims a little.

            “You’re single right now, aren’t you?”

            He hands me the key and kisses my other cheek too. “That’s a good thing. It means I can hug my buddy without a flock of harpies attacking me.”

            “You’ve been dating the wrong girls.”

            “I’m realizing that now. In the meantime, would you be up for lunch later?”

            Bouncing the keys in my palm, I shake my head. “I’m getting my sugar kick at Giaccomo’s later, sorry.”

            “Ugh, jealous.” He checks the time on his computer monitor. “Alright, I got class in ten minutes. Get the keys back to me by tonight?”

            I could give them back now, but for the sake of appearances I might want a neighboring tenant to see me getting in legally. “I’ll just leave them in your mailbox.”

            “That works too, except I lost the key to the mailbox.”

            “Of course you did.” I lean up to kiss his stubbly cheek and revel in the love he’s feeling towards me, no matter how conditional. “They’ll be back tonight, hobo.”

 

            There’s a terse exchange occurring within Jean’s office. I pretend I can’t hear it as I wait with papers for her, my last errand before I get the rest of the day off. The conflict is resolved in silence as the office hums with the low static of telepathic communication. There’s a sigh.

            Jean walks out with too much on her mind. “Oh, just leave it in the basket, Ace.”

            I enter her office just as Scott is leaving, and am startled when he touches my shoulder.

            “Meet me in my office after final bell. You and I need to talk.”

            Caught off guard, I nod blankly before he departs. I wondered how long I had before ‘the talk.’ With one-year-old Danger data and two missions in, I’m rather overdue for consideration. I know I should be an X-Man- I can take orders, work for the team, bear on under pressure- but is that really what I’ve been working toward? I always told myself I was doing it for me, and though it would be nice to believe it was for some greater purpose after all, there’s still going to be that side of me that came out at Brown.

            After my confession to Xavier, that night no longer carries the same dread. Realizing that this violent side is something I share with Logan put some of my fears to rest since I can never be as innately aggressive as him.

            Then I think of confessing my crime to Coulson or Vince, and my muscles go stiff again. God, Vince. Not an hour has gone by that I don’t think about you, and how entangled our history keeps getting. What were you doing at Brown that night, and why was I stupid enough to pry?

            As for the information concerning my birth parents, it’s insignificant. I’m not the only mutant to be abandoned by conflicted relatives, and that’s all I need to know. I’m ordinary.

            “Madge, what are your parents like?”

            She arches one irritated brow and types harshly away at the keyboard. “They’re lovely. Why do you ask?”

            I shrug. “Which one are you most like?”

            Her shoulders slump as she considers. “My mom. I’ve definitely got my dad’s face, but I’m in every way my mother. We like the same books, laugh at the same jokes. I can’t cook like her. My sister helps with the cooking, I just kind of watch.”

            Wondering if I should even ask, I craft my next question carefully. “What do your parents think of you…being here?”

            Madge nods her head to one side. “They’re pretty proud. It’s a little expensive, but I’m keeping up my GPA and am pretty optimistic about getting into medical school.”

            “Pretty optimistic? Madge, you’re 100% optimistic.”

            “I try to be,” she says with a sigh. “It’s not hard, there’s a silver lining to everything.”

            I hesitate. “Not _everything_.”

            “Most things.” She props her chin up with her fist. “It all depends on how you look at it.”

            I’d go blind trying to see the silver lining of some things.

            She studies me intently. “We should get your ears pierced.”

            “We should?”

            She shrugs. “Might be difficult to change them though. Ear lobes heal fast enough as it is.”

            Sounds like a waste of money. Madge smoothly brushes her hair behind her pierced ear. “How’s Matt? You said you saw him today.”

            “He’s happy,” I reply, pulling back my too-long hair. “He usually is when he’s single.”

            She gives a concerned look. “He have a lot of bad relationships?”

            “I wouldn’t say they were bad,” I look up to make sure her instructor isn’t getting tired of me hanging around, “they just weren’t really relationships.”

            “That’s sad,” Madge frets. “Why do some guys do that?”

            “Women do it too,” I say. “It usually depends on how lonely they are.”

            “You think Matt’s lonely?”

            “I don’t know. He has lots of friends. And it’s not like it takes a lot to keep him satisfied. Just talk about music and him, feed him lots of sugary things, and he’ll be fine.”

            She laughs. “That’s not how you take care of your friends, Ace.”

            “That’s how I take care of Matt.” There is of course all the family drama, but I shouldn’t be talking about that behind his back.

            “You wouldn’t take care of Vince that way.”

            There’s that name again. “Vince is a different person. He and Matt need different things, I can’t treat them both the same.”

            “No, fair point,” Madge concedes. “You’ve known them both a lot longer than me too.”

            I check my phone again, realize I’m developing a moronic habit, and turn it off altogether. “So, wanna help me move stuff into the apartment?”

            She gives me a dry look. “I am freaking out over this presentation, and you want me to help you get ready for your fun-filled summer?”

            “Mags, we’re dying to have you hang out with us. A couple weeks, and I can jump you home, or we can chip in for your ticket, no sweat.”

            She sucks in her lips and stares over the top of the computer. “You guys get along better without me.”

            “Excuse me, you are the cutest person in our crew. What are we ugly people supposed to do once you’re gone?”

            She tries to suppress a smile, but that just makes her cheeks pink. “Wear paper bags over your heads?”

            “There’s that sharp wit.” I poke her again. “See you after lunch.”

            “See you.” Madge smiles sweetly. “Have fun getting ready to have fun.”

 

            After digging around in a hall closet, I’ve got a paper grocery bag filled with old towels, toothpaste, and a pack of bar soap that no one will mind me taking off with. Backing out, I close the door with my foot as Jean comes down the hall.

            “Anybody want anything?” I ask, shifting the grocery bag to my hip. “I’m heading to the city.”

            “Are you going to drive or teleport?” she asks, checking for her wallet.

            “Oh. I guess I can’t really carry a bunch of stuff if I’m gonna jump, huh?”

            Jean gives me a satirical smirk. “You think ahead.”

            I wave her away. “Well, I’m stopping by that little pastry joint I like in Flatbush, so if you think of something, call me anyway.”

            She opens her mouth to reply, but instead swears softly.

            I recognize that as her “mission” face. Scott might want me to come, but the roster is currently full what with Kitty back early. A crowded team might be hectic. “Should I watch the kids?”

            Jean turns and heads quickly to the elevator, taking out her earrings as she goes. “Get liquor, we’ll need it.”

            “Okay,” I call as she turns the corner, “guess I’ll just buy that with my own money. And fake ID.”

            Adding a bag of chips to the supplies, I stuff some bills in my pocket and leave my phone on the nightstand. Then, since the day’s only going to get warmer, I take off my morning flannel. I should be back in time to help out while the team is gone.

            My best image of Matt’s old apartment is from the interior, so I just land inside. The doorframe’s been freshly painted, the refrigerator’s unplugged, the couch was sold, and there are no sheets on the bed, but otherwise it’s the same as I remember it. I set the grocery bag down on the counter. The place appears to be dusted regularly, so I’ll have to ask Matt about the cleaner and if they’ll rat on us for using this place.

            Counting out the cash I grabbed, I budget what to get while I’m in town; toilet paper, plastic dishware, trash liners. I don’t think Jean was serious about getting alcohol, so I cross that off the list. Smacking my lips, I carefully fold and replace the money in my back pocket. Before anything else I’m getting my cannoli.

            There’s a quiet, clean little alley a block or so away from my patisserie, an ideal spot to jump to. In fact the whole street is serenely unpopulated, hardly more than one lost tourist at any given time. I pause on the sidewalk as a wandering Chihuahua mix gives me a friendly sniff before continuing on his way.

            Behind the sticky counter of the tidy shop is a kind, older Italian man who flirts with me every time I come in. I think he thinks I’m Italian. In this city I’ve been mistaken for Greek, Puerto Rican, Moroccan, Jewish, black Irish, and once even Cherokee. Based on the last names of my birth parents, I suppose I’m Caucasian-Hispanic, but since certain parts of California are just as ethnically diverse as New York City, who’s to say I’m not a more complicated blend? Thus, whenever someone thinks I’m something, I tend to go with it.

            “You have a good day, _bella_.” The shopkeeper smiles as he hands the white paper bag over the glass case. “Hope to see you again.”

            “Likewise, Giaccomo. _Ciao_.”

            Mm, cannoli. If you let it sit in the bag for a little while the paper becomes glassy and dusted with powdered sugar. I tramp uptown, thinking Washington Square might be a decent spot to eat since it’s the closest, but it’s always too crowded. As I contemplate, I gaze over the Manhattan skyline. One building stands out _starkly_ from the rest. Of course Tony couldn’t just buy an iconic building and keep it that way, oh no, he had to go and shave one side off and slap his name on in big glowing lights like his own personal Las Vegas. I wonder if this one is “ _Ace_ -proofed” like he threatened. Guess it’s time to find out.

            My memory of that section of town is sketchy, and it takes a few hasty jumps to get me within even nine blocks of the tower. After covering half the distance on foot, I check the bag. Glassy. Breaking in better not take too long.

            _BOOM._

            Alarmed, I look up at the glimmering pinion head of Stark Tower. Tony’s up there right now in one of his suits, hovering around some kind of contraption he’s set up. Rolling my eyes, I keep walking. Tension has spiked up and down the avenue as pedestrians actually look away from their phones for a second.

            _Relax, people, it’s just an egotist with a science experiment. Carry on-_

            The contraption shoots a stream of energy into the sky. Immediately, I focus in on it, trying to discern just what the hell he thinks he’s doing. Iron Man continues to hover nearby, looking up at the stream as it becomes a shaft and billows darkly at the top…

            _Holy crap._


	44. Chapter 44

            _“Run.”_

            Another fusillade flips a nearby car, sending it spinning in our direction. I grab the guy who drops the till in fear, and _jump_. I let go of him farther down the street and _then_ he runs, looking over his shoulder to see if I’m following. No time to care, mosquitoes are buzzing.

            I wish they’d fly lower, or I could somehow get higher. I can only keep a force field suspended above me for so long before it weakens and fizzles out. The chariot fire sinks into the field with a hiss like water on a frying pan, and if it’s strong enough the field can stop a chariot in its path. Except I can’t get the field big enough to fill a two-lane street, and the chariots just fly around it. Frustrated after too many get by, I _grab_ one out of the air and bring it down hard into the road where it cracks like a walnut. Effective.

            I haven’t seen hide or hair of Tony since the portal opened. Gigantic, armored, flying eels are swimming down Lexington; aliens with exotic guns are crawling in and out of buildings like cockroaches, air chariots are swarming over Union Square, and I keep finding arrows everywhere. Seriously, _what the heck is up with the arrows?_

            For lack of a better weapon, I’ve been harpooning them at grounded hostiles, but they all have different tips and some are just entirely useless. What is the point of an arrow with a round end? Do I want to simply _bruise_ my enemy? Ah well, everything’s deadly if you throw it hard enough.

I’m pursuing seven invaders at the moment. They’ve caught on I’m an annoying pest, and are luring me into a nice place to fry me. I _grab_ three by the necks and snap them back. The remainder separate around a cab parked at an angle in the street. Ignoring their tactic, I jump up onto the roof, waving my arrows.

            In their language I snarl, _“Cowards.”_

            Squealing with anger, they fire up at me, and I catch and deflect each shot back at them until the return fire ceases permanently. It’s possible I said something worse than cowards.

            “Ma’am!”

            I turn quickly, freaked out by the sound of a human voice so nearby. A living American flag stands there holding a preposterous patriotic shield like a Fourth of July performer at a gay strip club.

            “Steven Rogers?” I guess. He’s either an impersonator or the real deal, and I don’t know which is weirder.

            “Uh, Miss…?”

            “Ace.” I jump down from the cab, too tired to care if this is some kind of hoax or heat induced hallucination. “You seen Iron Man about?”

            “Ace,” he greets me with a curt nod. “Stark’s patrolling the perimeter up on 39th.”

            So they know each other. “Is this the ‘Avengers’ thing?”

            “You know about it?”

            “Stark’s not exactly discreet.” And I wasn’t exactly deaf during those consultations.

            He glances behind me at the alien carnage. “You a friend of his?”

            I laugh weakly. “Oh man…Yeah, I guess so.”

            “You a soldier?”

            “No, but I willingly volunteer as long as Stark buys me a cannoli after this.”

            That grants me a gorgeous semi-grin. “Keep up with the groundwork then. Keep ‘em on the streets and out of the sub-”

            I grab him and _jump_ to the sidewalk as a chariot hurtles into the cab in a violent shower of glass and metal. Shards ricochet off his shield and catch in my force field as we crouch against a storefront. Recovering, he sizes me up for a second before giving an informal salute and taking off. I suppose I can’t be the strangest thing he’s encountered today. I think I was beat out in that category by an iPhone.

            The chariot crash left a survivor, and as I deal with him I notice another arrow lodged in the helm of his partially corroded vehicle. Wiping viscous purple blood off my arm, I stoop to examine the arrow more closely. SHIELD tech.

            The air trembles with an incredible roar three blocks over. My heart rate spikes. All this time I mistook that for one of the behemoth eels, but I recognize it now. New York City is a smoky blur as I hurtle down streets and around corners, dodging crushed cars and mangled chariots, finding craters in walls and in the asphalt itself. Finally, atop an empty bus, I find the source of the destruction.

            _“Bruce.”_

            He doesn’t hear me as he throws an alien down an entire block.

            _Ewh, that’s a little…ewwh._

            Tony zooms over him, picking off invaders as they ascend skyscrapers. He doesn’t seem to give Hulk a second thought, so I’m going to assume there’s nothing to be done.

            There are screams of panic two blocks over, and I jump to a familiar corner store in that intersection. Three humans are using the pole of a traffic light, and a capsized food stand as cover. A crouched man gestures for me to join them, but I shake my head and intimate that they follow, knowing the police blockade isn’t far away. After some debate in a foreign language he sends an older Iranian woman my way.

            “ _All_ of you, c’mon.” I take her firmly by the arm and maneuver her behind me. There’s a shrill screeching around the corner as an alien is murdered, and my refugees jump into action and run toward me. It’s a frantic dance around rubble and bits of steaming metal as we rush to the blockade. Amidst the cacophony of war I hear a tank rolling down a parallel avenue, the commands of someone’s superior officer barely audible.

            _Took you guys long enough._

            A sooty cop with a layer of ash on his shoulders sees us out of the corner of his eye and anxiously raises his gun, but we continue undeterred until he waves us behind the blockade of battered cars. I get my group to relative safety before jumping back up the street.

            Screams of fury and agony compete within my ears. Aliens lie fallen and torn down every street as the bone-shattering force of Hulk rages through Midtown East. Above all, even the weather is acting strangely. Some blocks make my hair rise from the static electricity, and I kept seeing charges of lightning aimed _at_ the portal earlier, fending off a few behemoths. I wonder if Storm and the others may not finally be here when I remember they’re already on a mission. They have no idea what’s happening.

            _“Shit.”_ I hit the ground.

            An alien cackles to his comrades, having grazed my left shoulder. I grit my teeth and disappear before they clamber over the sedan I’m using as cover. Their growls of dismay rumble around my head, and the added heat from their weapons makes the area a little more unwelcoming than before. The burnt smell of my skin sticks in my nostrils even after I heal. Raising myself and reappearing, I _push_ all four of them as hard as I can. The sedan rolls once and their bodies fly. Four, they run in groups, never alone. 

            “Urchin,” greets a tinny voice with a ring of surprise.

            “Pinhead.” I cough into my shoulder as Tony blasts the crap out of another pack. We’ve never seen each other this way.

            “Going up.”

            Before I know what’s happening, metal arms hook around me, and I am pressed tight against the hot exoskeleton of his suit. As we burst upward, my breath escaping me all at once, Hulk rages onto the street where we were just standing obliterating any surviving warriors.

            I stumble to my feet as we land. “Your suit’s like a frying pan, dude. Don’t do that again.”

            The visor slides back and I see Tony’s battered face attempting a wry smile. “What the hell are you doing over here? Miss a bus, tourist?”

            “Go pee in your suit or something, I’ve got work to do.” I cough again. “What happened to your face?”

            “Got in a fight with a god, no biggie.” He pauses to catch his breath. “Cap told me you were down here. Saw you chasing the big guy, figured you were good.”

            “I am.” Cough. “What god?”

            “Barton, I’ve got some reinforcements for you.”

            “Yeah?” inquires a cynical voice over his comm. “How many?”

            “No, no, no.” I try to avoid Iron Man’s bear hug. “Can you just tell me where to go instead of-”

            He drops me off on a graveled rooftop then wordlessly blasts off again. This must be how Pepper feels.

            “Whoa,” says the SHIELD agent standing beside me as he glances over the arrows in my hand. Without looking he lets one fly carelessly from his bow in a random direction, knocking an alien rider off its chariot and onto another, sending both careening. “You’ve been busy.”

            “You’re the weirdo leaving arrows all over.”

            He doesn’t acknowledge my statement as he quickly picks out more invaders. “Pop the spent heads off and hand me the shafts that aren’t shit.”

            A millisecond translates what he’s just said, and I oblige, removing the weird and obviously burnt out heads of the different arrows, and handing him the straightest shafts. He slips them quickly back into his quiver.

            “How do you plan on getting back down?” he asks drily, sweat running down his neck.

            “How do you?” I ask as I teleport to the street below.

            I’ve deciphered some of the things they’re screaming at me and let’s be glad there is no earthly translation. I smash one in the spine, vanish, crack one in the skull, vanish. It’s really pissing them off and I like that. Then some land out of nowhere and it’s my turn. Blow to the back of the head- pain stabs through to my teeth. Gritty asphalt scrapes up my palms; add to a sprained wrist, blurry vision, skin split at the knee.

            I let the kill shot phase through me, which is dizzying since it isn’t a tame little bullet- it’s been a while since anyone shot at me with that kind of tech. As they viciously attempt to kill me, I feel that black rage bleed into my system, warm and familiar. Head clearing, I become acutely aware of their six minds and grit my teeth. Six blades are raised.

            _Get the fuck off my planet._

            Six bodies fall around me, and the rage melts instantly. Rising, I step gingerly around the purple pools, trembling from the adrenaline.

            _Don’t get sick._

 

            Why the Avengers brought an archer, or rather why SHIELD had one on hand to begin with, is hilariously puzzling. However, I was later too consumed by the aching curiosity of why all the alien soldiers simultaneously fell unconscious- or rather dead- to give it much further thought. So distracted was I studying this phenomenon, that I just caught sight of the archer staggering into Stark Tower’s lobby.

            I sink to the floor of the schmancey private elevator as it gradually ascends this ridiculously tall building. I don’t remember punching in a number, but the doors open on one of the last few floors near the top. When I see Tony’s motley crew of freaks loosely assembled around a crater in the floor, I try to recall why the hell I got in that elevator in the first place. Cannoli.

            “Stark, you owe me an Italian pastry.” I brush my sticky hair out of my face and find a nice large piece of concrete to sit on. Finally.

            Hulk rumbles at me, and the red-headed plant known as Romanoff wields a sinister looking spear of sorts. Tony, the archer, and the flag are also accounted for, and there are two other dudes in some gaudy expensive outfits, one in particular looking a little worse for wear. It’s all too much to comprehend right now, especially since I see Tony heading for the bar along the east wall. Amazingly, considering the damage this particular floor received, the bar appears virtually unharmed.

            “How about a bottle of bourbon instead?” Tony asks jadedly as glasses fumble in his gauntlets.

            The mention of alcohol pleases everyone in the room as they head for the counter, though Hulk still has a few things to say as he paces the floor huffing and grunting in annoyance. The archer eyes him over his shoulder now and then, but otherwise no one can be bothered.

            “Ace.” Tony holds up a crystal tumbler of alcohol, as promised all for me, but I can’t work up the motivation to go get it. Hulk narrows his eyes at me. That’s enough.     

            I sink down behind the bar hugging the tumbler. My feet hit the mini-fridge. There’s probably ice in there.

            I drag the bag out and drop it on the counter in front of everyone. A sigh goes up, and the archer stabs a jackknife into it and rips open the plastic. Man after my own heart. Everything is on the rocks. The stranger in the green cape declines ice, but I hear him mutter to the burlier one about the heat on this planet. Well, that answers that question.

            Having had enough of aliens for several lifetimes, I head towards the gaping opening overlooking the city, a chunk of ice rolling around on my tongue. Not far away, among the rising smoke and cacophony of sirens and alarms, I see a behemoth passed out on top of a building. Someone’s going to have to get that down, and it won’t be pretty.

            “Tony, you wouldn’t happen to have a chainsaw, would you?” I ask, wondering if the right amount of telekinesis would budge it or if my head would simply explode.

            “Ace,” pipes the archer. “Like the hotel?”

            “No, like the hardware store,” I reply, turning back to them.

            He gives a dry chuckle that ends in a bout of coughing. Romanoff shoves his shoulder lightly. “Ease up, you’re contagious.”

            Tony sneezes. “Gah, ash up my nose.”

            I look out over my city and sigh. “I’m gonna go see what I can do about the napping eel.”

            “They’re called battle slugs and they’re a delicacy in some galaxies.” Tony totters briefly, but Rogers rights him.

            “Do you want one?” I ask. “I’ve got this great coupon. He couldn’t pass out in the harbor?”

            “At least he isn’t in the street,” Rogers says tiredly. “First priority is to clear the way for emergency vehicles.”

            “SHIELD’s got an app for that,” the archer grunts, casting a baneful look at the humanoid in the green cape. The alien gives another low mutter, but the second humanoid cuffs his shoulder roughly, so he winces and shuts up. I’m done with this bunch and head out onto the balcony.

            “Hey,” calls Tony, “we’re going out for shawarma in a second, you in?”

            “I had that for breakfast.” I step off the edge.

            

            I spend the next seven hours on rescue detail, getting people out from under collapsed buildings and flipped cars. The fire control I obtained from Pyro comes in handy, and I clear as much heavy rubble off the streets as I can. Looters and other opportunists roam freely, but besides scaring them off there’s little I can do.

            By evening, SHIELD units are crawling over the island, sectioning off whole streets as they begin the massive cleanup. Avoiding trouble with them, I hustle my way back to the tower to see if Tony is still up there. The sun hasn’t quite set, but the rising smoke has all of Manhattan cast in dark hues, accented occasionally by idling fires and flashing emergency lights.

            “To-nay,” I call as I walk around the upper floor where the bar is. Wiping my face on the back of my arm, I pick up what appears to be a phone. Dead.

            “There’s a working connection downstairs-”

            “Geez, JARVIS.” I jump. “Everyone else I can hear coming. You run this building too?”

            He hums. “Not today apparently. The elevator’s nonoperational at the moment.”

            A light flicks on to indicate the staircase, and in its glow I see the back of my arm streaked with soot and grime. But what makes me tight in the throat is the crusted red blood that I know isn’t mine.

            There’s a murmur of voices two floors down, and the smell of beef and deep-fried potatoes greets my nose like a loving friend. I step into the room, expecting Tony with some form of takeout I can snag, but end up instead with the two SHIELD agents. Romanoff, no longer wielding the strange weapon she had earlier, glares at me in the dark.

            “Where’s Stark?”

            She nods at the adjoining room as the archer looks over the back of his seat at me.

            In the other room, lit by humming fluorescents, two armchairs and a steel coffee table are arranged into a haphazard seating area. Rogers, the top half of his suit unzipped in the front and hanging open, sits blank-faced on the coffee table as Bruce and Tony melt into the armchairs, looking limp-limbed and for all the world like cloth dummies. Another man paces at the window on his cell phone, and after I moment I recognize him as Colonel Rhodes. His gunmetal suit stands beside a work table where Mark VII lies partially disassembled.

            Upon seeing me, Tony rolls his head to the side. “Hey…you. How’s the work?”

            “Eh, Damage Control kicked me off the streets.”

            He sits up and rests his elbows on his knees. “Yeah…us too.”

            With a heavy sigh, I let my hair down. “Hey, Bruce, how you doing?”

            He gives me a tired smile. “Um…better, I guess.”

            I smile too, glad he’s attempting humor. “That was really impressive. Messy, but impressive.”

            He shifts uncomfortably. “Er, I don’t take credit.”

            Tony opens his mouth to say something, then raises his eyebrows and tilts his head to the side so he can better see Bruce. “You know the urchin?”

            I indicate that I’m the urchin, and Bruce nods in understanding. Tony looks now at me.

            “How do we know the geneticist?”

            Bruce lifts a hand to his forehead. “Wait, how does she know you?”

            I step back to shake my hair out of my face, running my fingers through it to get some air flow to my scalp. “Are you actually Steve Rogers?”

            The man seated on the coffee table seems to have drifted off. Opening his eyes he turns to me with a sleepy half-smile, nodding that he is, unfortunately, Steve Rogers.

            During my Weapons Plus research, I devoured whatever I could find on Project Rebirth. Nobody knows the exact chemical formula he was given, but theoretically they put enough genetic preservatives in him to outlast a Twinkie. “If you don’t mind my asking, where did they find you? Do you know?”

            “North Atlantic,” he answers promptly. “In the…ice.”

            Rhodes pauses his phone conversation to look out the window at an incoming helicopter.

            “Ice.” I nod slowly. “That’s interesting.”

            I hold my hand out flat under Tony’s nose. With a disapproving scowl, he moves my hand away. “I don’t really have the cash _on me_ right now.” Giving Rogers a cynical look, he says, “You weren’t supposed to tell her.”

            “Oh, please,” I stand with my feet apart to cool off my aching legs, “I would’ve just found out from Coulson.”

            In the dim light, I see Tony’s face fall before he glances away. Morale plummets in both rooms. Romanoff shifts, the archer holds his breath, and Steve Rogers looks at the floor. Bruce seems to be the only one unaware.

            I look back and forth between Rogers and Tony, searching for some expression, some sign that will fix this. “No, he wasn’t-”

            Tony finally holds my gaze, his mustache moving slightly as he bites his lip. The prickling of attention climbs its way through my skin, so I turn and quickly leave the room.

 

            There’s nowhere really to go besides the stairwell. I don’t know whether to head up or down, so I just stand on the landing with my knuckles in my teeth trying to whitewash my brain. When the door opens, I shove my fists under my armpits and will my eyes to dry.

            It’s Tony’s hands on my shoulders, turning me around, that help me summon a look of utter nonchalance.

            “Hey.” He swallows, and a cheek muscle twitches.

            “He wasn’t on the ground.”

            “It was on the carrier, the SHIELD- It doesn’t matter.”

            “Did the aliens attack there too?”

            “No, no, it was-” he sighs with exasperation and rubs his forehead. “Loki was being held onboard and he escaped. Coulson tried to stop him, and…”  

            “Loki killed him.”

            “Yeah, with the spear.” He winces because he can’t believe he said it out loud.

            I crack my knuckles. “That’s it? He just walked up to Loki and tried to stop him?”

            We wordlessly agree on how stupid that sounds.

            “He would do something like that,” my knuckles hurt, “try and order him to take a time out or something.”

            Tony grins weakly. “He had a really big gun, I mean, he wasn’t just waving his badge around or anything. Did you…know, Phil?”

            Phil. “We started talking after that trouble in January. He helped me find my parents.”

            “You’re kidding? That’s…” He trails off.

            “Where’s Loki now?” My head is hot. “Is he the one Hulk embedded in the floor of the lounge?”

            “Look,” his fingers press gently into my skin, “I kind of know- I’m not any good at this, but I…”

            But comfort isn’t your forte. “It’s fine, Tony. Don’t…don’t worry about it.”

            Tony mirrors my disassociation by giving a bored look and a shrug. “You know I don’t worry about anything.”

            I try to smile, but my face forces the corners of my mouth into a frown.

            Somehow I end up with arms twisted around his back, and a sharp familiarity with the scent of his skin. His shirt smells of sweat and smoke, and his grip is stronger than I expected. There’s fog in my head, and I don’t even comprehend what’s happening until the stairwell door slams open and we both drop our arms.

            Wiping my eyes, I turn away too late so the person in the doorway won’t see. There’s a gap beside me as Tony moves to the door where a livid Pepper gasps out some garbled speech about falling and phone calls and heart attacks in jets. I know I’m in a tough place before I turn to see the two of them like fused parts, Pepper crying while she yells at him and digs her nails into his shirt, and Tony completely silent as he clings to solid ground.

            I remember the phone call I meant to make, and squeeze past them out the door. Avoiding the stares of the two SHIELD agents, I pick up the handheld and run into the out-of-order elevator as it’s the only somewhat secluded area left on this floor. The doors are stuck open, and everyone can hear me over the sound of Pepper’s sobbing.

            After the fifth ring an unfamiliar voice answers. “Hello?”

            “It’s Ace, who’s this?”

            “Ace?” It’s one of the students. “Ohmygod, guys, it’s Ace.”

            “Is everything okay?”

            “Are _you_ okay?” The phone must’ve been handed off because this is a completely different voice. “Madge said you went to the city, what happened, where are you?”

            “Can I speak with a teacher, or Xavier, or someone? What’s going on?”

            There’s a flurry of activity on the other end, and the voices of numerous excited students talk over each other until the phone is again handed off. “Ace?”

            “Madge? What’s going-”

            “We saw the portal close on TV. What happened, are there still aliens? Everyone’s panicking.”

            “No, no, don’t panic, it’s over. Madge, where are the X-Men?”

            She shares this information with the rest of the room, but the noise doesn’t die down. “The X-Men? They’re still out. Why aren’t you back yet?”

            “I’ve been helping clean up, but- Look, I’ll be back within the hour, okay? Don’t worry about anything over here, it’s being taken care of.”

            “Was that big green thing an alien?”

            “No, no- Look, I’ll be back soon, alright?”

            When I go to replace the phone, Bruce is standing in the archway between the two rooms. “Everything okay?”

            “Yeah, they’re just a little confused back home.” I scratch the top of my head and wish to god those agents weren’t here watching me sideways like they are. Then it occurs to me he’s probably talking about how I rushed out of the room a few moments ago. “I’m fine, Bruce. It’s good seeing you again.”

            “Likewise,” he replies, hunching his shoulders and straightening out a shirt that’s too tight for him. Might be Tony’s. “You’re heading home now?”

            I nod, brushing my hair out of my face, aware of how I stink and the archer being the closest to me in the room. “Take care, then.”

 

            I don’t go into the house right away. Collapsing on the edge of the lawn, I let the cool night seep into my skin as I inhale the clean grass scent, sharp tips itching sensitivity back into my face. I didn’t ask how long Bruce would be in town, I didn’t say goodbye to Tony & Pepper, and Coulson was dead before it all started. He was dead this morning, he was dead when I arrived, and he was probably dead when I went to see Matt.

            I shove my hand into my pocket and dig out the key to the apartment, relieved that it’s still there. The teeth bite into my palm as I sob.

            After a long shower I jump to the girls’ dorms and knock on Madge’s door. Her roommate opens it, covers her mouth in surprise, and the doorframe expands with kids.

            “How did it happen?”

            “Why were they here?”

            “Where are they from?”

            “Who was the blond guy?”

            “Did they evacuate the East Side?”

            “Where’s Madge?” I ask in a voice I didn’t mean to be so harsh.

            Reluctantly, they part, and she sticks her head through the door. “Are you okay?”

            “I’m fine. Just letting you know I’m home.”

            “Did other people get hurt?”

            I remember the blood on my arm. “We got most of the citizens off the streets though.”

            “What about in the buildings? Those flying things-”

            “I’m tired, Madge. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

            Her lips press and her brows knit, but she nods earnestly. “Yeah, go sleep.”

            The door has just closed behind me when telepathic static slips through my mind. I trudge to Xavier’s office, his study, then finally his bedroom. He _did_ call me. With a prick of worry, I head downstairs to Cerebro.

            I stand uncomfortably before the sealed door, feeling watched. After two minutes my limbs are begging feebly, so I sit down cross-legged on the floor. It’s freezing down here, which is great because my head is still frying even after that shower. Too much work today. Too much telepathic, telekinetic, telecrapic…I need a weeklong nap.

            With a hiss and muted squeal, the doors to Cerebro slide open patiently. I stand up and step back to keep my balance, but the room becomes hot with anxiety. Xavier’s face is stiff as he wheels forward, and looks up at me with an uneasy gaze.

            “I lost them.”


	45. Chapter 45

            “Lost, how lost?”

            “Cerebro’s having trouble locating them.”

            “Was the Brotherhood involved? You used to have trouble seeing them.” Perhaps it’s some kind of device or energy shield that keeps Xavier out. “Could it be someone like me who’s blocking your-”

            “It could be any number of things,” he snaps uncharacteristically. Then with a heavy sigh, he rests his forehead against his hand. “What’s happening in the city?”

            My brain is threatening to bust out of my head if I don’t get some sleep soon. “It’s over. SHIELD’s cleaning up. I can find them. Where were they last?”

            He blinks at me, taking a moment to separate one sentence from the next. “The last time I told you where someone was you disappeared to British Columbia for a month.”

            “Professor, if they’re in trouble at least let me go see what’s happening.”

            “You are needed here until they return.”

            “Professor-”

            “With finals to prepare for and a shortened teaching staff, I’m doubling your hours.”

            I don’t have the energy to argue, and there’s no point upsetting him further. The X-Men will be back before a doubled workload becomes necessary anyway. “Is there anything else?”

            He raises his eyes to me. “Those weren’t humans you were fighting in New York.”

            I squeeze my burning eyes shut then open them again. “You couldn’t see me fighting in New York.”

            “I know the trail you leave; back and forth to Stark’s building, a blurry figure he interacts with that I can never quite focus on. There were two other species there.”

            “I don’t know where they were from. One seemed friendly, the rest…It’s under control.” I turn halfway to look back at the elevator. “I thought you were looking for our team not spying on me.”

            Xavier goes stiff. “Why do you think I was looking for our team?”

            Whatever. I start to walk away. “I don’t know when I’ll be up tomorrow, but I doubt I’ll be able to move much.”

            “It wasn’t spying. My team is lost, Ace. Lost while you were in the middle of a warzone. I couldn’t lose you too.”

            “Then let me _find them_.”

            He sets his jaw and maneuvers his chair forward. “After what you’ve been through?”

            Today was a tea party compared to what I’ve been through. “Professor, you’re worried, more worried than I’ve ever seen you. If I can in any way lessen your worry-”

            “Stay. Home.”

            I hold my head in my hands and lean forward slightly until the pain decreases. “Sure. I’ll stay home.”

            Xavier’s chair stops before me. “What else can you tell me at the moment? The students will no doubt have questions.”

            I shake my head and lean back slowly. “Nothing, it’s over. No alien invasion, no monsters. SHIELD will probably quarantine everything- they were putting up barriers when I left- so there will be limited access to the city for some time.”

            He nods dully, exhausted himself. “And?”

            Aside from everything changes after this point? Aside from New York having some new wounds to heal? I clear my throat and it causes an ache in my skull. “Coulson’s dead.”

            Xavier’s compassionate gaze tires me, like another lecture in itself.

            I rub my burning eyes. “He was dead before the portal opened. There’s a warlord, the second species, who killed him because he got in the way.” I back away slowly to keep Xavier’s sympathy at a distance. “And yeah, the aliens came through a portal, but the device was disassembled. I believe.”

            “I’m sorry, Ace.” 

            I pause to look at the tiles in the ceiling. “I didn’t know him that well.”

 

            The simple act of returning an apartment key became as emotionally wrought as I’d feared. After reassuring him again that the world was back in order- one of many similar lies I’ve told him- I managed to inform Matt that the apartment hadn’t suffered any damage. It didn’t seem to register.

            Between the two of them, he and Vince filled my voicemail with anxious and frustrated messages. Seeing Matt was necessary to return his key, but Vince I’m loathe to meet in person. While it now feels meaningless to stress over Brown, a petty incident comparatively, I can’t adjust to the fact that he was somehow involved. Besides, there’s too much immediate work needed in the city to make time for an argument.

            I land in the apartment with a new bag of supplies; water, Band-Aids, a flashlight. With looters at large, I check for any sign of a break-in since last night. The sack of towels is right where I left it, so I put it in a cupboard with everything else.

            Heading downtown, I slink behind the SHIELD barrier. There are twice as many hazmat suits and windowless vans as there were last night. Invisible, I try not to be noticed as I pick around rubble and dust, conscious of where my footprints might land. As soon as I step onto Park Avenue, the reek of raw flesh blooms in my nostrils. I cover my face with the surgical mask I brought, not that it helps. Yesterday I counted four downed leviathans, one blown to absolute bits. The air near this one stings my eyes, and I squint as I maneuver around the café tables it’s collapsed on, narrowly avoiding the hoard of white-suited SHIELD goons hacking away at it like many upright maggots. I cover my nose with my hand and withhold my retch reflex as I realize this is only half of the creature, the severed other half leant against the opposite side of the viaduct. I hear activity alike around the corner of Grand Central, and know they’re working on the one that crashed into the side of the building. The cost of restoring this cultural icon alone will break the city’s back.

            Two blocks down 42nd, I unceremoniously kick an alien corpse in the head. His faceplate comes loose, so naturally I crouch down to study it. There appears to be a breathing apparatus worked into it, something that may have sustained them while they flew through the uncharitable upper-atmosphere. Jigsaw armor is infused in their skin, and I wonder if they aren’t biomechanical; organic drones that depended on an open portal to their home system. Terrifying, being on a thin lifeline in a foreign place knowing if you die there will be no one to pick you up and take you home. Still, better to die than be left, especially if you don’t expect mercy for failure.

            A search-and-rescue dog pauses in his work to stare at me, his supervisors oblivious to my presence. I exit the scene before distracting him further. It’s difficult, but I’m leaving the rescue work to the professionals. Emergency personnel are working feverishly as the city continues to eat itself alive. Façades fall without warning, fires chew their way through apartments, and certain sections of town smell thickly of gas. The fires left to burn themselves out become my responsibility.

            It’s five o’clock, and I feel I’ve just barely scratched the surface of the work there is to do when my phone vibrates.

            I tug the mask below my chin. “Why are you calling?”

            “Can you make it to the tower?” The tinny voice tells me he’s in his suit. “Actually, where are you?”

            “In the city trying to help without getting sent back over the barrier. Where are you?”

“Where specifically in the city?”

            Exasperated, I look down the barely recognizable street. “West 34th and 7th.”

            “Wow, you’re far beyond the red zone. Are you invisible?”

            I confirm, and gently _roll_ a car forward a few inches out of the intersection as a fire engine attempts to ease its way down the road. “Look, I can just meet you wherever you are. I don’t want to get flown somewhere again. You’re not exactly rider-friendly.” I wince. “Don’t even-”

            “I’m very rider-friendly.”

            “God, I hate you.”

            Tony chuckles childishly and buzzes around the corner. “Don’t reappear just yet, I want to try something.”

            “That doesn’t sound good. New upgrade?”

            “No, I’ve had it.” He hovers high above the street, and I stick my tongue out.

            “Are you in front of Pizza Hut?”

            I look behind me. “Oh, hey I am.”

            “Really?”

            “No, jackass,” I reappear, “you’re off by twenty feet.”

            The suit turns in midair and lands in the street. “Was not. You just teleported.”

            Smirking, I hang up and head over to him. “Is there any way you can make it legal for me to be over here? I don’t need SHIELD on my back.”

            “Yeah, I might do you a thing.” His faceplate stays in place. “You know East 35th & Madison?”

            “Not well.”

            He powers up the repulsors again and lifts a foot off the ground. “I’ll race you.”

            I jump halfway there before he’s even finished speaking then jump piecemeal the rest of the way. Rogers is working this street in plainclothes, a light sweat on his brow, and the white powder of crumbling concrete on his hands and arms. Tossing a slab of concrete over his shoulder into a dumpster, he says something to one of the SHIELD agents he’s working with then sees me just as Iron Man arrives in a noisy fury.

            Landing, Tony jabs me with one titanium finger. “Cheater.”

            “Loser.”

            Rogers smiles flatly as he approaches, raising an eyebrow. “Still volunteering?”

            “You never told me to stop. Shut up.” I give Tony a fed up look. “You are a dirty old man.”

            “I didn’t even say anything that time.”

            “You were thinking it.”

            “Old man?” Rogers makes a face. “He’s a half-century younger than me.”

            It’s a joke, he’s being facetious, so I laugh and he smiles.

            “Go ‘head, tell him how old _you_ are,” prompts Tony, poking me in the ribs again. “Stevie, ask her how old she is.”

            “Please don’t.” I tilt my head so my hair might fall into my face, but the elastic strap from the surgical mask keeps it in place.

            Steve raises his chin and wipes dust off the back of his arm. “SHIELD’s saying we can’t get moving equipment in until some of the heavier wreckage is cleared beforehand. Think you can help with that?”

            Not that I expected him to be, but I’m grateful Steve Rogers isn’t another ferocious tease. “Point me to it.”

 

            The animosity was palpable before anything was even said.

            “Wow, look, a mutant actually cleaning up after themselves for a change.”

            A group unaffiliated with SHIELD has been assigned to follow after them sweeping and disposing of small, non-extraterrestrial debris. They’re a pain in the neck. I attempt to clean without using telekinesis, but the workload _I’ve_ been assigned more than requires it.

            The semi lying across the road looks like an over-sized child grabbed onto both ends and twisted it apart like a wrapped candy. Muting the workers, though unfortunately not their thoughts, I focus all my concentration on righting the cab. The metal groans miserably as glass sprinkles onto the asphalt. My limbs tremble, and I worry I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, when the cab bounces onto two wheels then shudders into place. A bit more concentration and it’s parked in an awkward parallel to the curb. I comb the cleared ground for anything that might pop a tire on the dump trucks, when I see one of the archer’s spent arrowheads still embedded in alien metal.

            Keeping my mouth shut as I walk past the workers, I hand the arrowhead to the nearest SHIELD agent and avoid eye contact with anyone. I’m turning back to deal with the trailer when I see Rogers approaching with his hand held up.

            “We’re going to go ahead and move up-street,” he says over my head. Receiving the go on this, he looks me in the eye to make sure I know I’m coming.

            Once we’re a block away from the worksite, I breathe an unintended sigh of relief. Rogers gestures that I help him lift a fallen traffic pole. Wrapping both hands around one end, he lifts, and I use that space to essentially _wedge_ my telekinesis beneath it. Together, we lower it carefully into the gutter.

            “I don’t know what’s considered ordinary in today’s world,” he begins.

            With a deep breath, I physically lift a window frame out of the road.

            “Stark seems to trust you, and so does Banner.” He adjusts his posture. “But if you wanted to explain, especially if it would help avoid situations like that,” he nods back down the road at the workers, “I’d appreciate it.”

            The way he says it, as if he intends on being associated with me further, is oddly encouraging. Tony and Bruce had never seen me do what I did yesterday. They each separately know different aspects of my mutation, but not altogether like I exhibited during the battle. It dawns on me that being here with this man-out-of-time in a city ravaged by aliens from outer space makes me a little less of an anomaly. “Mutants were around during your time.”

            With a grunt, Rogers lifts a car off its roof and onto its belly. “Then I didn’t know them.”

            Since reading my files, Logan’s been a bit more open with me about his amnesia. While blank spots still exist, memories of his previous life have been coming back gradually, and he’s let me in on a few of them. “I believe one or two even served alongside you.”

            Rogers puts his hands on his hips as he catches his breath. “I doubt they’d exactly pronounce themselves.”

            I nod to the side, agreeing.

            He observes me without scrutiny. “Think you can help me with those cabs over there?”

            After that he only asks about recent history; the Civil Rights Movement, commercialism, Watergate. Part of the reason I barricaded myself in the school library when I first arrived was for this very reason, to play catch up. Rogers, or Steve as he asks me to call him, turns out to be an easy-going conversationalist. The mid-century Brooklyn education in him is evident, but he’s no harder to speak with than Banner.

            Steve screws the cap back onto a water bottle. “So, we’ve been into space several times, but never discovered life.”

            “Correct.” We both had a nice laugh over SETI.

            “Then aliens just came knocking yesterday?”

            “Well,” I push a car to the side, “we’ve encountered them before, but they didn’t make as big an impression.”

            Tony zooms by overhead, raining the street with dust as he totes a chunk of debris. Steve watches, squinting. “And how long has _that_ been happening?”

            I laugh under my breath and he looks at me like he wasn’t expecting it.

            “ _That_ has been happening for far too long. He only created the suit a few years ago.”

            I explain briefly what I know of Tony’s kidnapping and how he built the suit to escape, but Steve apparently knows more about it than I do. I suppose SHIELD filled him in early on.

            We both look up from our work as Tony bursts in our direction, then lands with a _clang._

“Dinner call.” He jerks a thumb toward Stark Tower in the distance. “Better book it before the Jolly Green Giant eats it all.”

 

A much fatigued Bruce sits in one of the seats the agents inhabited last night, a laptop idling on the coffee table before him, and a SHIELD issue duffel beside him.

            “Sir Liberty motored back home like a chump,” reports Tony, swaggering over to the seat across from Bruce. “You’d think he’d have a bigger appetite.”

            “He could probably use some time to himself.” Bruce glances up at me and nods hello.

            Aside from Pepper and her aides making phone calls downstairs, I can’t hear anyone on the nearest floors. “Where is everybody?”

            Tony settles in his seat with a slight grimace of pain. “Well, the Asgardians beamed up this morning, after which the inscrutables jumped in their Aston Martin and drove off into the proverbial sunset.”

            Asgardians. The last time I heard that name was from Coulson. “Tell me about Asgardians.”

            Tony looks at Bruce who lifts his shoulders in perplexity. Tony sighs. “They’re big, space Vikings who arrived thousands of years ago and became part of Norwegian legend.”

            Typical. “And the ones we were fighting, what were they?”

            “ _Chitauri_ is how Loki put it.” He sounds out the vowels with speedy arrogance like they’re a waste of space on his tongue. “Did you see their armor? How it’s…”

            “Melded?” I finish off my water bottle. “Yeah, I don’t get the impression enlistment is exactly voluntary. That might explain why they died so suddenly too.”

            “Like some biochemical off-switch?” Bruce rests his chin in his hand. “Then they were pawns.”

            “All soldiers are pawns.” Tony cracks his knuckles. “It’s more likely they were linked to the ship for survival purposes. There was oxygen on the other side of that portal, some kind of field the ship was creating. Otherwise that nuke would’ve bounced off without a scratch.”

            “Wait,” I grip the bottle in both hands, “you went up _into_ the portal? Is that what Pepper was mad about?”

            “I was wondering how you didn’t implode when you went up there.” Bruce is looking at the ceiling thoughtfully. “I didn’t think the suit was fit for space travel.”

            Tony shrugs. “It’s airtight. And I _did_ lose consciousness.”

            _“You were in space?”_ I press the heel of my shoe into Tony toes.

            “It’s no big deal,” he frowns at the dent I’m making in his patent loafers, “I only destroyed the mother-ship.”

            “Romanoff was closing the portal you didn’t _need_ to destroy-”

            “I had a good reason, okay?” Tony tries to leave it at that.

            “What was this nuke you mentioned?”

            “Calm down, you’re stressing out Banner.”

            Bruce scratches behind his ear. “No, I’m fine, actually.”

            Tony gives him a dry look. “Et tu, Bruté?”

            I bop Tony’s shoulder with the empty bottle. “Don’t do that again.”

            “I’m _Iron Man_. I do stuff like that all the time.”

            “‘I do stuff like that all the time,’” I mock. “You’re going to give poor Peps a heart attack one of these days.” I pull up a steel folding chair and sit down. “So, the work permit, or whatever it is I need to help out down there, can I use that all summer? I’m going to be living in town.”

            “Finally getting your own place, Miss Independent?”

            “No, a friend has an apartment here.”

            “This friend make good money?”

            “His dad does. You know him actually.”

            “Your friend or his dad?”

            “Robert Larson.”

            Tony’s brow pops up. “His kid is your friend? How’d you finagle that, you pick him up at a nightclub too?” He winks at Bruce.

            “School dance,” I smirk. “He was being flirtatious so I punched him in the mouth. We became friends after that.”

            Bruce chuckles, and Tony just shakes his head as if he expected no less.

            “Tony,” calls Pepper.

            “Yes, dear?”

            “Is there a- Come here a sec.”

            Tony vaults out of his seat and can soon be heard clearing the stairs two at a time. Bruce and I raise our eyebrows at each other.

            “Where’ve you been?” I ask.

            “India,” he answers matter-of-fact. “I’m, uh, going back tonight.”

            “You’re going back? Bruce.”

            He pushes up his glasses and returns his attention to the laptop. “There are some loose ends I need to tie.”

            “Have you even seen Betty yet?”

            He glances up in surprise.

            “Should I not have asked? Not my business? I’ll stop talking now.”

            Bruce looks back at the computer with a small smile. “And how are things on your end?”

            “Pretty good. I’m still working at the school.”

            “Oh yeah, you said something about that last time I heard from you.” He hesitates, wondering if that sentence came off mildly accusatory. “And Vincent? He still…recovering?”

            “Vincent?” Tony reenters the room. “Young lady, how long have you been blatantly _lying_ to me?”

            “Since I met you.” I rub my eyes. “Vincent’s doing great. He’s going to college in California-”

            Tony walks between Bruce and I for no reason whatsoever, and turns to stare down at me. “Boyfriend?”

            “ _No_. Knock it off.” I slap him in the leg to get him to move. “He also has a _girlfriend_ now, a nice girl. They’re taking classes together.”

            “Wow,” Bruce rests his chin in his hand, “that’s quite the turnaround. You’re still in touch then?”

            “This the friend studying engineering?” Tony sits down. “How old is he?”

            “You know, you didn’t ask this many questions about Larson’s kid.”

            “You want me to ask questions about the Larson kid? I can ask questions about the Larson kid, but I know Robert and Jackie so I already kinda feel like I know their kid.”

            I pause. “You don’t like them.”

            He closes one eye and raises the eyebrow of the other.

            “I need to get going.” I stand up. “What kind of paperwork do I need for work tomorrow?”

            “You realize there’s food here, right?” Tony waves his hand in the general direction of the stairs. “Pad Thai, you ate all of it last time.”

            “I finished your leftovers,” I rebuff. “There’s a big difference between eating everything and-”

            “So? Are you going to stay and socialize?”       

            “Tony, I have people to get back to. I’m going to have to take it and go.”

            “If you’re still up to it,” Bruce closes the laptop and looks at Tony, “I should probably get to Port Authority early so everything can be cleared in time.”

            With a heavy sigh, Tony rises from his seat. “Ride for Bruce, food for the party-pooper.”

            “And a work permit.”

            “Uh-huh.” He snaps his fingers. “This way. Banner, you too.”

            “Thank you, Tony,” I say with unnecessary politeness. Matching my pace to his, I lean up and kiss him on the cheek. “And thank you for saving New York.”

            Mumbled sarcasm is my reply.

 

            Chaotic. That’s what I tell Vince later that night when he finally catches me on the phone. Too many trucks full of supplies, too many volunteers and no structure, no organization. And they’re only the frothy toes of the wave. Next come the fundraisers, the telethons, the guy who puts out a hat to aid ‘New York’s orphans’ then disappears to Bermuda. Then the lawsuits, the crime sprees, the insurance claims. Damaged property, lost property, stolen property. Ambulance chasers crawling the place along with the goody-goods hoping to gain a few more holy bricks for their celestial mansions, and mixed in-between the slats will be actual people sweating and bleeding to untangle this mess, sacrificing actual unpaid time just because they can, because they have to. Just get people out of harm’s way, just find their kids and elderly parents and get them to a shelter. That’s all you’re here for today is sustaining lives. And if the camera leaves the pastor, or the mayor, or the philanthropist for a second, ignore it and keep working because smiling and waving isn’t your job.

            When I’ve caught my breath I feel that angry ache in the back of my skull again, the one that says I haven’t had enough sleep or enough to drink, that I used my telekinesis too hard again and am going to break.

            “There’s still a lot you’re not saying.”

            We’ve been on the phone for an hour now and I’ve been hoping we just won’t get to his questions at all. “What more do you want from me?”  

            “I want you to tell me what happened, not just rehash what I can see on the news.”

            “I’m not free to talk about it. How’s Kirsten?”

            “Ace, don’t screw with me.” His voice is sharp, impatient. “What the hell happened that you aren’t telling me?”

            I’m sick of this back-and-forth doubt I have in him. “Aliens attacked us, Vincent. That should be information enough.”

            “Then tell me about Iron Man and those others he was with. Who are they? Where did they come from?”

            “They’re a special operations team that SHIELD organized to handle crap like this.”

            “So SHIELD knew aliens were going to attack?”

            “Vince, how should I know what SHIELD knows? I only know what Tony knows and that’s just because he has no filter. I can’t tell you anything else. Oh, Bruce says hi.”

            “Bruce? He’s in town?”

            “Yeah, he’s the big green guy you probably saw on TV.”

            “Get out of my life. I can see now why you like him.”

            “Shut up.”

            “You’re not worried are you?”

            I yawn. “About what?”

            “The team. Our team.”

            “No, I’m not worried.” I check the clock on my desk. Thirty-four hours. “Hey, Vince? I signed up with Stark Industries’ volunteer program for the relief effort. We’ll be working all summer, so I was wondering if you’d like to sign on too. It’s just basic stuff like loading and unloading supplies, but it’ll look good on a résumé.” That came off sounding crass. “And we need the help.”

            “Of course I’ll help,” Vince replies readily. “Matt’s got his job with the firm, so we’ll only have him in the evenings anyway. It’ll keep us busy.”

            We talk a little more about the city, our conversation peppered with small, sullen pauses as he gathers the enormity of what I’m telling him. When I tell him about the Chrysler Building and Grand Central, he goes so eerily silent I think the call might’ve been lost.

            It’s ten o’clock and I’m already sinking slowly into the bed covers. Vincent takes a breath over the phone, and I reopen my eyes, thoughts swinging in lazy circles.

            “Don’t work yourself too hard, A.” His voice sounds like it’s coming from inside a box. “I’ll be home in a few weeks, and we can still have the summer we were going to have. Sound good?”

            Vincent sounds like home when he speaks. I can’t forget that. Whoever he was the night of John’s death, he’s not that person now. He told Xavier what happened, and that’s all I need to know. We might hash it out at a better time, but until then I’ll wait.

            “Alright, Vin. Goodnight.”

            “Goodnight. Be careful out there, yeah?”

            “Yeah. You too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are endless conflicting timelines for the MCU, so I'm doing my best to keep this as accurate as possible. However, I might have to take creative license on occasion. Bear with me.


	46. Chapter 46

            It started getting heavy the week after the X-Men left. I’d get up at five, work in the city until school got out, tutor for two hours, then head back to the city until night fell. By Thursday I was subbing for two of Scott’s classes and one of Jean’s, cutting my daytime relief work to a few hours minimum.

            Week three. Since returning from college, Rogue and Bobby will be restarting the discontinued Danger Room classes- Kitty was with the team when Xavier lost contact.

            Terry clears her throat, tired I think from not having practiced her shriek while she was away. “Hard doin’ it without Storm. The lightnin’ always stood my hair on end. I sort of miss it.”

            My voice too is sore from shouting over the cacophony of the Danger Room. “I think between the four of us we could get them back.”

            Rogue cracks her gloved knuckles. “If the Professor thought sendin’ us in there would help, he’d a sent us. Right, Bobby?” She looks at him to agree with her.

            “Not that I wouldn’t like to tear in there ‘n get them out,” Terry brushes back wild strands of hair, “but if that many X-Men aren’t home yet, what good would we do?”

            Bobby nods slightly, having something to say but holding onto it. 

            “Logan’s comin’ back,” says Rogue. “You know he will.”

            I meet her gaze. Is she babying me? “If Xavier can’t even tell us where they went or why, it’s not because he’s trying to protect us it’s because he doesn’t trust us. Knowing what happened can’t harm us, acting upon it can. He’s keeping us here.”

            Bobby nods again, looking up at the other two. “I’m with Ace on this one. If Xavier trusts us to lead rescue scenarios in Danger, why not in real life?”

            “Of course he keeps us here.” Terry crosses her arms. “What if aliens attack again?”

            “He wouldn’t send us.” I say. “We’re not X-Men, we’re not even reserve X-Men. We just happen to have suits.”

            “But we do have experience.” Bobby adjusts his posture to face me more directly. “We all graduated Danger Room; you, and Rogue, and I have been on missions. We’re all qualified.”

            “Yes, so why doesn’t he send us on this mission? If he trusts us to train X-Men, why doesn’t he trust us to be them?”

            “Probably because the situation might be worse than we think,” Bobby says. “I want Xavier to trust us on this too, but if he thinks it isn’t safe-”

            “Bobby, we just got out of the _Danger_ Room, we’ve been on real missions, and I fought a freakin’ army. It’s not our safety or our qualifications that have us on babysitter detail, it’s Xavier’s inability to- You know what, forget this.”

            I turn and stalk down the hall, unzipping my suit as I go. “If anyone needs me I’ll be in the city getting actual work done.”

 

            There’s an orchestra of sawing and drilling throughout Stark Tower as it’s remodeled and repaired, the semi-sweet scent of sawdust underlined by the sharp musk of burnt materials. Pepper strides into the room conversing with the foreman, her hair swept back in a tight bun, and her too-tall heels curtained by the cuffs of her swaying slacks.

            Tony looks where I’m looking before turning back and hunching his shoulders- a physical tell that he’s shirking responsibilities. “So, yes, there is a memorial being held, but feds will undoubtedly be in attendance.”

            I nod, inspecting a scuff on the floor. “I’ll be there in spirit. Or- You know what I mean.”

            “There you are.” Tucking a tablet under her arm, Pepper steps carefully down a short step. “Tony was supposed to call you yesterday, but things unsurprisingly got in the way. Didn’t they?”

            “Naturally.” Tony raises one eyebrow at me as Pepper wipes dust off his sleeve.

            “Has she seen it?”

            “Seen what?” I ask.

            Tony shrugs and takes the tablet as it’s handed to him. “We’ve just been setting up some rooms for the rest of the team, places for them to settle when they come back.”

            When. “Have you heard from Bruce, is he okay?”

            “Who Mr. Dr. Banner?” Tony winks, tapping away at the screen. “Don’t stress, he’ll be back. If he’s not he knows I’m sending someone after him.”

            Pepper purses her lips, and shakes her head at me. The few times I’ve revisited the tower since the battle, she’s always present. Officially, she’s taking a hands-on approach to the reconstruction as good PR. Yet there’s an anxious look she gets right before kissing Tony or taking his arm in hers, reminding herself that he’s here with her and not lost in the infinite cosmos.

            “So,” Tony returns the tablet to Pepper, “you’ll have to come back for the unveiling, whenever that may be. It’ll be a pain getting them all in the same place again.”

            Pepper leans an elbow on Tony’s shoulder. “Oh, just show her, she came all the way up here.”

            With a reluctant sigh, Tony looks at her. They stare for awhile, holding some wordless conference, before she swipes a finger past his nose and walks away.

            In the elevator Tony explains his design plans for the other Avengers’ sleeping quarters. “I’ve tried keeping Cap in the loop on this, but he hasn’t figured out zip codes yet, so I don’t know how he’ll conquer email.”

            “I’m pretty sure he understands the telephone, jerk.” The elevator comes to a stop and we step out. “What about the rest of them? Are the agents Avengers too?”

            “Last minute volunteers. Romanoff saved our collective asses once or twice, so I don’t think we can do without her.” Tony turns down a curved hallway. “And Barton proved we don’t want him _against_ us anytime soon.”

            “You know, between the archer and the resurrected Uncle Sam you’re a really weird group.”

            Tony gives me a funny look. “I feel like ‘raging green-guy’ and Techno Viking outrank bow-and-arrows in the weirdo category.”

            “From someone who lives with weirdos, Hulk’s normal.” I lean against the wall as Tony types a code into a security panel. “And the other guy’s not from here, so he’s allowed to be a little off.”

            “Well aren’t you open-minded?” Tony teases as the door slides open. “Yeah, Hulk’s okay. Thor’s musculature is ridiculous though.”

            “Thor? Literally?” I follow Tony into the room. “He even had a hammer, how did I miss that? Still not as ridiculous as Steve’s costume though. What’s this?”

            Tony waves his arm at the unfinished room. “This is yours.”

            It’s big. No carpet yet or paint. The bathroom is in progress, and the light fixtures haven’t been installed. But it’s big. I stop staring at the floor-to-ceiling windows long enough to stare at him. “I’m not an Avenger.”

            “Well, maybe you will be.” Tony crosses his arms. “Besides, I figure if I actually give you a room you won’t be tempted to break in anymore.”

            My reflex is to smack him, hard, but _he_ _made me a room_.

            “Now is when nice people say thank you.” He pokes me in the shoulder.

            I turn around and hug him. Without hesitation, he hugs back. “I’ll admit I was not expecting that.”

            I laugh shortly into his shoulder then give him a smacky kiss on the cheek. I turn to the room again. “This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

            The material of his jacket shrugs. “I’m just cool like that.”

            “I have to go thank Pepper.” He’ll hate that. “This took a lot of work on her part.”

            Tony sighs. “Ingrate.”

 

            Vince is face down on the bed when I enter his room. “Hey.”

            I kick the gutted duffel on the floor and close his door. “How’s the unpacking going?”

            There's a bland laugh into the pillow. “You stop by the apartment tonight?”

            “Yeah. Saw your stuff, left some of mine.” I sit on the edge of the bed and start to untie my shoes. “I think Tony just offered me a place on the team.”

            Vince lifts his head. “With the Heroes of New York?”

            “Yeah. He’s making everybody a bedroom in the tower like it’s their headquarters now. Except he made me one too.”

           

Vince stares wide-eyed with enthusiasm. “Take it.”

            I take off my sneakers. “This isn’t like- This is a career. I’m not ready for that crap.”

            He rolls onto his back, his shirt crooked and wrinkled. “Shut up, you were ready ages ago. Go, pack your things and move in with the Heroes.”

            “They don’t live there right now. And it wasn’t a formal invitation.”

            “Well, did you at least take the room?”

            “I don’t know. I have an entry code.” I scrape at a black spot on my jeans- oil or soot?

            He hums and clasps his hands over his chest. “Oh hey, Bobby asked about you. Said you left in a bad mood this morning.”

            “Yeah, I kind of yelled at him. We were talking about the X-Men again.”

            Vince watches me for a second. “Is that why you’re throwing yourself into the relief effort?”

            “I’m not throwing myself.”

            “You’re in town all the time. All you ever talk about is SHIELD this, Red Cross that, some guy you met from Michigan, some chick from Atlanta.”

            “Damn, I’m sorry for ever telling you anything.” I let down my hair. “The X-Men would be doing it if they were here.”

            “Right, the X-Men.” Vince rubs his nose. “You’re doing it for them, that’s why you enjoy teaching so much.”

            “Knock it off, Vin.”

            “So you’re not suited for teaching, that’s not a prob-”  

            “People need help, I can help.” With a jerk I straighten out his shirt.

            “You smell like a sweaty gym sock on fire.”

            My  punch doesn’t have quite as much force as I meant it to.

            “I love you too. Is that blood?”

            “No, it’s…I don’t know what that is.” I inspect a substance on the back of my arm. “Something from a food stand- I’ll go shower.”

            “G’night then.” Vince hugs a pillow as I rise from the bed. “Hey, turn out the light?”

            I flick the switch as I leave.

            With summer break on the horizon and most of their teachers gone, a large percentage of the student body is panicked about grades. I memorized the curriculum when I took these classes, so panic is simple enough to handle. It’s the kids who are treating this like vacation that get on my nerves.

            Today there’s a swarm of them in the computer lab supposedly writing essays, but making a lot of noise doing it. I glance up and down the hallway to see if an actual teacher is nearby to wield authority instead of me.

            “Ace, c’mere, come see this!”

            Rubbing the ache out of my temples, I follow the kid into the lab. “Guys, please say you’re getting work done and not just-”

            Three kids point to a computer where Shenise sits with a look of awe as a video plays. “It’s you.”

            “What?” I lean forward, uneasy. “Where?”

            “Look, isn’t that you?” She points to the blurry figure in the video. “I’ve seen you wear that.”

            The figure has her back to the camera, but it’s clearly New York on the day of the battle. My ponytail, my tank top, but you can’t really say it’s me until I generate a force field as enemy fire rains down the street.

            The headache is wildly uncontrollable now. I sense five other kids coming toward me with their phones, and step away from the computer.

            “Don’t share it. Don’t anybody share, tweet, or post anything about it. If you already have, delete it.”

            There’s stress and confusion in their expressions. I’ve never lost my cool in front of them before.

            “How many views?” I ask, heart in my throat.

            Shenise swallows and glances at the screen. “Three hundred and five mil-”

            I break through the throng of kids into the hall.

 

            “Okay, calm down.” Vince has a way of sounding firm even when his voice is soft. “It’s out of focus, and you have your back to the camera the whole time. No one’s going to identify you off eight seconds of footage.” 

            “Vince, the _whole world_ has seen that video, and all my students are telling their online friends that I’m a teacher at their school. I swear to god, I’m-”

            “Relax.” A noise in the stables makes him turn and close the door completely. “Just relax you’re going to be fine.”

            I step back against the bathroom doorjamb. “I can’t breathe.”

            “Well, do it anyway.”

            “Vinny, this is the scariest thing, I can’t, I’m freaking out.”

            The look on his face, the way he swallows. I hate doing that to him.

            “I’m not having an attack, I’m just...” I take a deep breath. “I’m just scared.”

            “Of what? Being on film?”

            I shake my head and lift my shirt collar to hide my neck. “Nothing, go away.”

            Willing to comply, he puts his hand on the doorknob. “It doesn’t seem like nothing.”

            I feel it physically when he looks at me, an uncomfortable sensation, so I turn away, only to see myself in the mirror. I begin to vanish, my knees give out, but before I hit the floor Vince has me around my invisible shoulders and back, arms clumsy but firm. Together we sink.

            Breathless sobs suck the air right out of me. “God, I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be- I shouldn’t.”

            Vince presses his head to the back of my neck as his fingertips press into my shoulder, the inside of his other wrist against my ribs. It feels like a harness, the kind they strap you into to go rock climbing. His lips brush against the nape of my neck, but it’s an accident because they are then in my hair. His hands move awkwardly.

            “I’m sorry, gorgeous, I’m sorry. Please reappear.”

            Shaking, I try, see my own knees flicker in front of me then disappear again like a bad signal. Vince’s breath shudders.

            “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I hold the arm across my chest with both hands, curling tighter. “I just…can’t handle this today.”

            Unexpectedly, I reappear. Vince’s arms tremble and this time when he presses his face into my hair it’s intentional. “It’s okay, don’t apologize.”

            More shaking, like shivering, teeth chattering. Fire in my head, in my nostrils, in my lungs. I haven’t felt this level of bizarre since the lake. Fingers and toes turned to ice during the last minute struggle, thrashing around in tangible gravity.

            “Ace. Ace?”

            Too much contact with his skin. I close my eyes as a torrent of emotion infiltrates my every nerve.

            “Did you actually do that? Ace?”

            Vince is somewhere in that lake in my head, swimming in my thoughts. His grip tightens and he murmurs something harsh into my shoulder, something to himself, something frightened.         

            “I’m sorry, Vinny-”

            “When was this?”

            “It’s not- Don’t worry about it, I’m not doing it again.”

            “Was it when I was gone?”

            “The video, Vin.”

            He lifts his head to look at me, a long look, like my face is brand new. “Forget the video. You are stunning. You are brave. I don’t know why you’re afraid of it, but that video is helping you more than hurting you. It’s helping all of us.”

            By us he means mutants I’m sure. “I wasn’t trying to prove anything.”

            “No, I know.” Vince leans his head against my shoulder again. “You don’t do things for how they make you look.”

            We sit quietly for a minute, both of us thinking about the lake now. He keeps squeezing me, so I finally get up to lie on the bed. He moves to sit by the bed. “Too much has happened for you to have nothing to say. Vent.”

            I hide my face in the pillow. “I’ve never been good with words. That’s not how I vent.”

            Then don’t give me words.

            I turn my head to face him again. “We can’t do that anymore.”

            “Why not?” He scratches the back of his neck, looks at the window, then back at me. “Why can’t we do that anymore?”

            “Because you have a girlfriend, and…”

He leans his elbow on the edge of the bed, rooting his fingers in his hair.

            I readjust the pillow. “Does Kirsten know you’re a telepath?”

            Vince looks at the bedcovers. “Kirsten…she’s sweet and I like her, but I don’t know what she thinks about all that.”

            I pull the pillow into my arms and prop myself on my elbows. “Avoiding cameras, and turning off cameras wasn’t exactly my top priority during the fight. There’s probably more footage of me somewhere.”

            Vince rubs his lips together. “Are there people looking for you?”

            The question makes me bristle. “No. Why?”

            “Like those scientists?” He drops his voice low.

            I study the stitching in the pillowcase. “Those people think I’m dead.”

He’s quiet for a time. “Does Matt know about your suicide attempt?”  

            “No, Matt doesn’t know.” I close my eyes. Black Sabbath plays abruptly, and I groan into the pillow. “Tony.”

            Vince reaches onto the desk to retrieve my phone. “Were you going to see him again?”

            “No,” I take it when he hands it to me, “he’s supposed to be working. We’re both supposed to be working.”

            He waits patiently while I read the text. “I’ll drive you in if you want. There’s still some stuff I haven’t finished moving into the apartment.”

            I pause while typing my reply. “You wanna meet him?”

            Vince looks at me like I just offered him the keys to a solid gold car.

            

            _“The_ Vince? Of ‘he has a girlfriend we’re totally just friends’ fame?”

            “I will hurt you, Stark.”

            Tony flashes an overwhelmingly charming grin at Vince. “She’s adorable isn’t she?”

            “Oh, now you’re being creepy,” I say, “well that’s good.”

            Vince doesn’t seem to have heard any of this as he pumps Tony’s hand. “It’s- Wow, it’s- awesome to finally meet you.”

            “Likewise, Vinny. Ace just can’t stop talking about you.”

            I narrow my eyes. “Yeah, so we’re here for fanboy time _and_ signing him up to work this summer. Paying job would be best.”

            “Oh, no, I mean, that’s not necessary.” Vince laughs nervously, and the hand that shook Tony’s now bunches up the material at the back of my shirt.

            I shrug my shirt gently. “Volunteer work is fine, but he’s living off Monsters and Top Ramen.”

            Tony raises his eyebrows. “I survived off martini olives in college.”

            “Shut up.” I shrug again. While I don’t mind being a security blanket, I’d rather Vince weren’t so starstruck by this saucy nerd. “Do you have any hourly work he can get for the clean up?”

            “We’ll find something.” Tony looks over both shoulders. “I’ll grab the darling Virginia and see if we can’t rustle up a scholarship too. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

            I elbow Vince, and he releases my shirt. “Well, I gave him that card Pepper gave me, but he never called the number.”

            “You know I don’t like calling people,” Vince says between his teeth.

            “Well, a very rich man is offering you free-ish money, so start kissing up.”

            Tony nods complacently. “I do like kiss-ups.”

            “You like people who make fun of you.”

            “I like people who can take my sarcasm and throw it back at me. Not the same thing.” Tony raises his eyebrows at Vince. “Abrasive people, like Ace. Is she this devastatingly cruel at home too?”

            “Worse.” Vince flinches when I move in the slightest.

            “Stark, I had no idea you were sarcastic,” I say.

            Tony has located Pepper by her cell which we can all hear ringing downstairs. “Hey, gorgeous, you busy? Good. Ace’s platonic friend _Vincent_ needs a summer job in Manhattan. Have we got- Uh-huh.” Tony makes sure to step on my toes as he passes by me. “We’ll be down there in a minute.”

            Vince tugs at the back of my shirt as we walk, leaning close enough for me to hear him whisper. “Thank you a billion.”

            I’m thankful that he chooses to peck me on the cheek when Tony has his back turned.

 

            The lock clicks smoothly, and Vince pockets the apartment key. “I can’t tell you how amped I am for this job.”

            “You don’t have to. Your cheeks have been bright red since we left.” I head for the elevator. The two of us smile and nod at a tenant as they enter their apartment with mail.

            “You said Matt already talked with the cleaning lady?” I summon the elevator.

            “S’pose so. She only comes once a week.” The doors open and he waves me on first. “We’ll just keep the place clean.”

            We have to walk a few blocks to where we parked the car. With much of the city blocked off and under construction, parking has become twice the hell it’s always been. The only reason we didn’t jump this time was to move the last of our household things into the apartment.

            Between two other apartment buildings on our walk is a fenced alley. The few feet of chain-link has been collecting ribbons and flowers for the past few weeks, the site of a terrible bus crash that took place during the battle. I’ve tried ignoring the area, which was easy enough when a clean-up crew had the area cordoned off, but now both Vince and I stop to look.

            The fence is coated with relics, the memorial spilling over the blast marks in the pavement, covering them. Our eyes both fall on the prominently placed teddy bear in police uniform.

            “Guy I met out here yesterday said there was a retired cop onboard,” Vince tells me. “Got some people off the bus before it was razed.”

            Cards and letters surround the bear, among them thanks from the people he saved, and anecdotes from his wife and daughters. I wonder if Coulson had family.

            “You alright?”

            In my head I’m cataloging the faces, names, and relatives of all the victims, deciphering which votive candles go with which photos. Among the keepsakes are a single rose, cloth flowers, plastic flowers, small toys, two rosaries, an origami crane, and a bottled Pepsi with a bow around the neck. Many of the items are brand new, the ribbons and cards only gently wilted from being out overnight. Craft shops and corner florists alike must be rolling in melancholy money right now.

            I cover my mouth to keep this heartlessness from falling out. Crass people exist even at the worst of times, but I’m clearly one of them.

            “Let’s go.” Vinny’s hand is on my back. “Just turn away from it, c’mere.”

            I turn to face the street instead. I have to look at something dirty and mundane like the tired asphalt with its oily filled-in cracks and blackened chewing gum blemishes. I have to remind myself there are emotionless parts to the world, tiled ceilings and generic street fronts. Neon lights and grocery store aisles.

            “I should’ve been with them.”

            Vince’s hand bunches up my shirt fabric again and he swallows thickly. “I’m glad you weren’t.”

            I stare down at the curb. “It’s been nearly a month, Vinny.”

            “Yeah, okay, but,” he turns me to face him and points to the fence, “you see these names? How many more would there be if you hadn’t been here? Ace, they’ll be back.” He looks me in the eyes. “Whatever happens, happens. We can take it.”

            An incoming spring storm has the sky washed gray around his face, the breeze shifting his hair that’s grown out again.   Coulson, our family, they’re on the other side of the universe right now. But Vince has that look in his eye like he doesn’t know what he’d do if I weren’t standing here right now. He grips my elbow, and I realize I should never have let him know about the lake.

            Taking the corner of his windbreaker, I tug. “Let’s go home.”


	47. Chapter 47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of this fic, Loki and the Chitauri attacked Manhattan in 2011. Tedious research into the MCU timeline can't prove whether The Avengers takes place in 2011 or 2012, so I'm going with the best choice for the fic. Too many contradictions in the MCU timeline for me to keep up with (especially with Spider-Man now included), so expect me to get creative.

            “‘Don’t tell me the sky’s the limit when there are footprints on the moon’.”Madge smiles smugly.

            "Except there's a burning, airless atmosphere between here and there if you haven't got the right equipment,” I reply. “Even then-”

            "Oh hush,” she smacks my arm, “you ruin everything.”

            Matt leans over her shoulder. “Plus, there are aliens.”

            “Knock it off, Matt,” I warn. Madge hasn’t been taking the alien revelation too well.

            But Madge just giggles shyly like she always does whenever Matt shows her any kind of attention. I roll my eyes and keep grading papers, flicking blades of dry grass off the page now and then.

            “So, where’s Vinny?” Madge asks, moving her hair behind her ear.

            “He’s on the phone with Kirsten.”

            “You know, I have never met this chick,” announces Matt. “I’m starting to think she isn’t real.”

            “She’s real.” I tease a jumping spider off the paper and back into the grass.

            Matt raises an eyebrow. “Madge, did you know that in high school Vinny had a huge crush on A-”

            “Oh, god, not this again.” I shake my head at her. “Matt has this unhealthy fixation with Vincent’s love-life.”

            _“Lack_ , lack of a love-life.” Matt flicks something at me. “Guy needs to get out more.”

            “Right, because that’s served you so well.”

            Matt crosses his arms. “Well, when I do find the right girl I’ll at least know what I’m doing.”

            “Will you now?”

            “God, you’re in a mood today.”

            “You’re unusually high on yourself today.”

            “My parents are coming out to visit,” interrupts Madge. “They wanted to finally see New York, so they’ll be picking me up when school ends.”

            I clear my throat, abashed. “That’s nice. The tourism board will be happy.”

            Matt scoffs at me, and Madge sighs, thin brows knitting over her nose as she considers other ways of keeping the peace. Dark specks begin pattering across over my papers, so I shove them quickly into a messy stack. “Crap, it’s starting to rain.”

            “You like the rain,” says Vince as he strolls across the lawn.

            “Ace is being moody today,” Matt pipes.

            With an armful of papers and the willingness to kick something, I get to my feet, affirming to myself that I will not react.

            Madge does. “Matt, that’s enough. We’re going inside while Ace gets her work done. Go on.”

            To the surprise of Vince and me, Matt actually complies, getting to his feet and letting Madge escort him back into the building. She mouths a “sorry” over her shoulder to me.

            “Well that was weird,” Vince says as he follows me back to the stables.

            Hunching my shoulders in an attempt to shelter my papers, I shake my head. “Matt’s weird. What’s going on with him?”

            Vince slides the heavy wooden door open and then shut again as we rush into the drafty building. “Just the usual I think. His mom’s trying to reach out to him, his dad’s somewhere in Europe.”

            In my bedroom, I drop the papers on the desk. “Europe? Has he said anything else about moving to England?”

            Vince lingers a bit long in the doorway brushing water off his jacket.

            “Vin, is he transferring to England?”

            “Yeah.”

            I turn to face him, arms crossed. “And I’m the last one to hear about it?”          

            “He wanted to take us all out to dinner and tell us then.” Vince gives me an innocent look. “He’s just been waiting for Madge to have an evening off.”

            I set my jaw and look about the room for something active to do. I see the neatly folded pile of clothes I’m taking with me to the apartment, and begin searching for some kind of bag to put them in. “Is that why he invited us to live with him? He knew he was leaving months ago and was going to wait until the last minute to tell us. Typical Larson.”         

            Vince stays out of my way as I search for my travel bag. “Does Xavier know we’re moving out for the summer?”

            “I haven’t talked to Xavier in a while,” I pull my hair back, “not since the last time he refused to tell me anything.”

            Vince cracks his knuckles. “Look, I know it’s bugging you, but you have to trust him on this. Xavier knows the X-Men better than anyone.”

            Shoving clothes into my second-hand duffel, I try to think of something positive to say. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

            Sighing, Vince walks over to the desk and pulls out the chair. “Can I finish these? It’s just first-year algebra.”

            I run both hands through my hair, flip madly through the list of chores I have to get done, and calculate how much time I have to do them all before tonight. “Why didn’t Matt tell me-”

            “Because he’s Matt and he makes poor life choices.” He looks over his shoulder at me. “Relax. Soon all these kids will be out of here and you’ll get the summer off…to clean up New York. But I’m going to help you with that too. Okay?”

            I might cry from exhaustion, but instead I laugh sarcastically. Looking out the window over his head, feeling the rain thrumming on the roof, I wonder why I did. Vince gives me a miffed look.

            “Sorry. Thank you.”

            “You’re welcome,” he turns back to the papers, “jerk.”

 

            When I enter Xavier’s office I hold my breath. I’d hoped he wouldn’t be in.

            “Ace-”

            I leave the paperwork on his desk and turn to leave.

            “-I’d like to have a word with you.”

            He acts like he can’t see me trying to escape. Biting my lip, I turn and face him.

            “There’s a well-founded fear of extraterrestrials among the students now.” He folds his glasses and sets them aside. “You fought them firsthand, yet you don’t seem troubled by the experience.”

            Because I have a dinner I’m going to be late for. “I’m from outer space, Charles.”

            He takes it neither as a joke nor a shock. “I’m worried about you.”

            That’s never good. “Why?”

            “You’re bottling again,” he moves his chair out from behind the desk.

            Not by choice. “It’s not bottling, it’s…assimilating.”

            Xavier takes down a file from a nearby shelf. “I assume you told Coulson what you just told me.”

            “I’m not actually from outer space, Professor.”

            He looks askance at me before maneuvering his chair behind the desk again.

            “I’m not telling you everything I told Coulson.”

            “I don’t need to know all you told Coulson. I’d like if you told me what you _meant_ to tell him had he survived.”

            Things I meant to tell Coulson. I’ve already confessed Brown to Xavier, but I don’t particularly want him to be my confessional. I don’t want him to know that Chitauri blood is the reason I cut my hair again, or that I’ve never intentionally killed that many beings at once before. I was just getting to the point where I felt comfortable telling Coulson these things, but I’ll never reach that point with him.

            Thankfully, the door opens. “Hey, A? Are you almost- Oh, sorry.”

            “It’s alright.” Xavier places the file on his desk and raises an eyebrow at me. “You may go.”

            Matt and Madge are already in the car waiting for us.

            “Sorry,” I say buckling in, “the Professor caught me last minute.”

            Matt tosses something in the back seat. A chocolate bar. That’s thoughtful of- _"_ _Matt.”_  

“Madge suggested it.”

            _“I did not,”_ she counters. “I told you to _apologize_.”

            “What’d you do?” Vince asks, looking in the backseat. “Get her chocolate?”

            “That’s what you’re supposed to do,” Matt defends, “you know, when they’re…when she’s…You know what I mean.”

            I peel off the wrapper. “I’m mad at you, but I’m also relieved that there’s chocolate.”

            “See?” Matt says to Vince. “When they’re like that, get them chocolate.”

            I break off a big piece and hand it to Madge, who declines by pinching her belly. I roll my eyes and place it in her lap anyway before giving some to Vince.

            “Not me?” Matt asks in the rearview mirror as we pull out of the main gate.

            “Drive, Jeeves.”

                       

            “I’m sorry about Matt earlier,” yawns Madge once we’re at the restaurant. “And I’m sorry I told him about…you know.”

            I wave it off. “I just didn’t feel like putting up with him today. Hey, why do you like him?”

            She looks a little surprised.

            “I mean, I know why other girls like him,” I stuff another fry in my mouth, “he’s charming and pretty.”

            Madge laughs confidently, but smoothes out her skirt. “Why can’t I like him for those reasons too?”

            “You can. I guess I just don’t see him as your type.” I take a sip of Matt’s drink and cringe. “I was expecting someone who had at least read a book in the past decade.”

            “Saw that.” Matt pokes me as he comes back to his seat. “Sneaking my food.”

            “Oh how the tables have turned.”

            Vince clears his throat. “Hey, Matt, wasn’t there something you were going to tell us?”

            “Yeah,” I take the pickle slice off his plate, “tell us.”

            Matt blinks at me. “Well, if Vince already did-”

            Vince holds up his hands. “Hey, whoa, she’s psychic.”

            “No one told me.” Madge fiddles with an earring. “What is it?”

            With an irritated sigh Matt folds his arms and sits back. “Come fall I’ll be attending college in London. My dad wants me to finish there, but- and this is something you advised-,” he looks at me, “I’ve thought about it and decided it’s the right thing to do.”

            Vince stares at his lap, probably checking his texts. I have my hands clasped in front of my mouth to keep from saying anything rude, and Madge is doing whatever Madge does only very politely.   

            “Will you be back for the holidays?” I ask. She was thinking it, but is too shy to ask now that I’ve acknowledged her crush.

            Matt shrugs. “I guess we’ll see.”

            “For how long?” asks Vince, still staring at his lap.

            “Two years,” Matt looks sideways at him, “though hopefully less.”

            Madge lifts her water glass. “We’ll still see you online though. Facebook and that sorta thing.”

            Vince picks over the cooled remainder of his meal. “But you’re still gonna have to come back often.”

            “Or you come to me,” Matt grins, “since Ace _has_ traveled further before.”

            I’m caught off-guard, recalling my conversation with Xavier.

            “Oh, it’s 11:11,” Madge chirps as though she’s been waiting. “Make a wish.”

            I roll my eyes then catch Vince furrowing his brows at me in admonishment.

            “I wish for dessert,” states Matt hastily as he scans the room for a waiter.

 

            Joel’s eyes keep flicking back to his note cards, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he rocks in place behind the podium. Brianna, who just gave her speech, tosses a flatiron curl over her shoulder and sighs impatiently while glancing at her phone. I knock her score down a point.

            Xavier’s hand on my wrist startles me into feeling a pang of guilt for adjusting her score. Leaning toward my ear, he whispers, “They’re on their way.”

            I look at him as if it’s possible he could mean anything else. “All of them?”

            Xavier smiles and gently squeezes my wrist.

            For the rest of the day I can’t stay focused. New York relief work is only there to eat up time until they arrive, and sleep is only to fast-forward until morning. By 5am I’m pacing outside the hangar bay, having just checked the blacktop, the infirmary, and Logan’s emergency beer stash to make sure nothing’s amiss.

            Finally, I hear the hatch opening, but have to wait until the engines power down before entering as calmly as I can. Scott is the first to see me, but with Jean hanging heavily off his shoulder he barely acknowledges me. Jean herself appears calm if not fatigued, though her presence is causing more than just interference with my telepathy. The air around her snaps and crackles like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I barely notice anyone else once my eyes lock on Logan.

            He staggers back when I hug him. “Hey, kid.”

            Others’ footsteps continue down the ramp and out the sliding doors. The hanger bay has long been empty by the time I loosen my grip, but I’m not letting go.

            Logan presses his cheek to my head. “Haven’t showered since I left, darlin’.”

            I didn’t want to say anything. He gives my hand a squeeze. “C’mon.”

            One arm over my shoulder, and I with one around his back, we progress slowly toward the locker rooms.

            They got back a day before final exams. As they rummaged through essays and assignments while gulping down coffee, no one was able to answer our questions about the mission. _What went wrong? How did you get back? Who’s the woman you brought with you? And_ why _is she dressed like that?_

Logan raises a sharp eyebrow and leans back in his chair. “Try not to think about it.”

            “Does she…have real clothes? That’s all I’ve seen her wear since she got here. It’s creepy. Like a Victoria’s Secret angel wandering around.”

            “Creepy, uh-huh.”

            “Who is she?”

            “Look, she’s here on the Professor’s goodwill, but I’m telling you not to trust her. Got it?”

            I nod solemnly. “What’s her mutation?”

            “She’s a telepath.” His jaw tightens and he glares at the mini-fridge that holds his last beer. “A clever one.”

            It's the way he says clever. “She’s given you guys problems before.”

            “Ace,” he leans forward, “I’m going to go out on a limb here and say people can change. Emma Frost is not one of those people.”

            “I got it, don’t trust her.” I tug on the leg of my shorts. “Still wish you’d tell me what happened.” 

            Sighing, Logan runs a hand over his face. “Where’re the guys? Haven’t seen ‘em all week.”

            “Outside.” I got Vince and Matt to volunteer with the graduation setup. “They’ve been living in town they’re just waiting on me.”

            He smiles softly. “Go join ‘em. You look worn out.”

            “I’m going to be working all summer. I’ll still be worn out.”

            Logan grunts and retrieves the can from the mini-fridge. “Stark pay well?”

            “I’m volunteering.”

            He grunts again. I grunt in reply. He presses the cold can of beer to my nose and I giggle.

            Outside, the graduation ceremony has just ended. Scott’s visibly shaking from stress when Jean takes his hand. An unusually somber Kitty and Piotr are similarly inseparable. Hank sustained a mysterious injury and is thus keeping to the infirmary, and Storm has dark bags under her eyes as she goes through the routine of smiling and handshaking.  

            Madge, who’s been excited all month for today, even more so since the teachers returned, catches hold of me and drags me over to her parents. “Ma, this is Ace-”

            “Oh, it’s so nice to meet you.” Mrs. Cozad takes my hand warmly in hers. “Madge talks about you all the time.”

            _“Ma.”_

            “Oh, sorry, not _all_ the time.”

            A balding man I can only assume to be Mr. Cozad turns and beams at me. “Who’s this then? Ashley?”

            “No, she’s Ace,” explains his wife. “Ashley’s the other girl.”

            I put my hand out to shake, but instead he wraps me in his arms.

            “Sorry, I’m a hugger.”

            Mike- he insists I call him that- has the same bright eyes, eager smile, and round nose of his daughter. Long past dying his hair, he must’ve once had the same deep shade of brown Madge does, a color so close to black it makes mine look light by comparison. Debra Cozad, who is currently introducing herself to Matt, has silver streaks through hair the color of ripe wheat, and laugh lines around her eyes. Madge is blushing furiously as her mother, hand resting on Matt’s arm, slyly teases the life out of her. Fortunately, Matt doesn’t catch on.

            Mike takes Matt in his arms next. “Sorry, I’m a hugger.”

            Madge looks mortified.

           

            I collapse on the air mattress set up in the middle of the apartment. “I’ve slept on rocks more comfortable.”

            Vince sits down on the couch and kicks off his shoes. “Then take the bed and Matt can have that.”

            I haven’t the energy to get back up. “Matt. Don’t go to England.”

            With my head turned away I can only hear him sigh. “You said I should make my own decision.”

            “I lied, don’t go.”

            “Just jump to England,” says Vince. “Then you can bug him all the time.”

            “Says the jerk going to California.” I wriggle out of my overshirt. “I have to jump a continent or an ocean to see either of you guys.”

            “We can always video chat,” Matt suggests.

            Not the same. My stomach groans and I wish I’d stayed to eat at Xavier’s. They start talking over me, the refrigerator door opening and closing as they mow through the groceries I bought a day ago. Between their young-guy metabolism and my healing-factor voracity, the food that was meant to last us a month will probably be gone by tomorrow thanks to the over-caffeinated blitz I was shopping in.

            Come bedtime, I find sleep not as easy to achieve as I thought. Vince laughs as he dreams, Matt snores like a bear, and I’m too distracted by the noise of the city and humidity of the room to keep my eyes closed for very long. If this were Xavier’s I’d go out on the lawn and study the stars for a while just to clear my head, but I don’t want to jump too far from the guys.

            All the workers are gone from Stark Tower when I arrive. Most of the lights are out and sensors on, so I tread carefully. My bedroom is nearly finished, bathroom fixtures gleaming, carpeting plush and deep. I sit in the center of the unfurnished room for a minute, wondering if Tony intends for me to bring my own things. Soon though the combination of fresh paint and newly-laid carpet reminds me I wanted fresh air.

            Jumping to the balcony, I immediately mute the complaint of some scaffolding as I knock into it. Everything out here looks different than it did when I visited last. Tony has some big plans in mind.

            Even up here barely a star can be seen, blurred out by the jealously competitive city lights. It is breezy though, stirring the humid air and making me a little sleepy. Sitting down, I pull my knees up to my chest, and instead of the night sky I study the skyline, memorizing each sleek silhouette and bulky outline.

            With no nearby humans to clutter my telepathy, I can finally relax, bringing to mind the mansion roof when Vincent and I would go up. I miss that. I miss the obligation to be together, to know he and Matt would be nearby when I woke up. We might be together right now, but it’s not the same. All three of us have separate lives, separate jobs, separate homes. Madge is sweet, but the two of us won’t ever have the friendship I have with the guys. Once she graduates next year, I’ll be on my own again.

            The alluring solitude of the balcony was a ruse. Someone’s been watching me from the lounge and I don't notice until he opens the door.

            “What’re you doing out here?”

            This was a terrible idea. Standing up, I straighten out my T-shirt and hope that in the darkness he won’t notice my sweatpants and bare feet. “I didn’t think anyone was here.”

            We stare at each other for a second, both clearly bothered by the presence of the other.

            “Does Stark know you’re here?” he asks.

            I shrug. “JARVIS might. Tony doesn’t usually care.”

            The archer puts one hand on his hip and scratches the back of his head. “Well, come inside, or- Come inside.”

            I cross my arms, the breeze growing chillier. “What are _you_ doing here?”

            Now he has both hands on his hips. “Stark’s letting me use a room for a while. You sure he’s okay with you being out here?”

            What’s it to you? I turn back to the view and sit down again.

            The door closes, but instead of going inside the archer is coming out to join me. The hairs rise along my spine.

            “Everything alright?” he asks, his voice lower now that he doesn’t have to yell over the expanse.         

            Go back inside, dude. “Sure.”

            He dawdles a little longer. “It’s just weird that you’re here 'cause I’ve kinda been meaning to talk to you.”

            This was a terrible, terrible idea. “Have you? About what?”

            His hesitation and the mental argument he’s having with himself tell me he’s not the most organized SHIELD agent I’ve ever met. “Coulson,” he says finally. “We need to talk about Coulson.”     

 


	48. Chapter 48

            The wind buffets against the glass barrier. Barton sits down a couple feet away from me. “I kinda overheard you when…well, when you heard about Coulson.” He pulls his knees up too, hooking his elbows over them and holding his wrists. “How did you know him?”

            “I was a consultant.”

            _Asset_ he corrects in his head. “Coulson didn’t usually make friends with consultants.”

            “We weren’t friends.” I press my eye to my knee. “You know I’m not going to talk to you.”

            Barton wipes his face. “Look, I’m not being SHIELD right now, I’m…talking isn’t even my job.”

            “But you want to talk about Coulson.”

            “We worked together.” He looks sideways at me. “He was a good man who took care of the people he worked with- agents, consultants, and everyone in between. If there’s anything I can do, you know, anything you and Coulson were in the middle of, I’d like to help.”

            My empathy has gotten to the point where I just absorb and diffuse whatever emotions surround me. If I don’t have the facts to back up the emotion, then I don’t dwell on it. But the waves of guilt coming off this guy are getting on my nerves. “Why?”

            He gulps. “Why I want to help?”

            “Sure. Why do you want to help _me_?”

            Barton stares at his fists before swallowing hard. “It was my fault.”

            “Coulson?” I stare. “Tony said Loki killed him. He said he was being held somewhere, but he got out-”

            “I- I organized that.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “Sent the right people to the right places, created a distraction, it was all me. Coulson wasn’t supposed to be down there.”

            This makes even less sense than Tony’s explanation. “But you fought against the Chitauri. What happened?”

            “Loki.” Gritting his teeth, Barton turns his head to avoid looking me in the eye. “I could never intentionally do what I did, alright? I can’t- I wasn’t myself. I knew what I was doing, but I would never have done it had I- In the end, Coulson paid for it and I owe everyone in his care.”

            Not grief counseling, redemption seeking. “How many other weirdos does SHIELD keep tabs on?”

            “A few.”

            “And is ‘asset’ a polite word for ‘threat’?”

            With a sigh, he leans back. “Sometimes. Really what it means is we’d rather have you on our side than against us.”

            “Did you start out as an asset?”

            He rubs his fingers together. “Yeah.”

            I narrow my eyes, pulling my knees closer to my chest. “How were you not yourself when Coulson died?”

            There’s something between a laugh and a choked sob as he sits back. “Magic. Alien science, I have no idea how it worked. One minute I was me, the next…I did everything for Loki. He didn’t even tell me what to do, just what he wanted, and I found a way to make it happen.”

            Were my skin not already pricking from the cold, it would from the sick-at-heart sensation that comes over me. 

            “You know, I saw you in the street,” he says, “with those warriors.”

            I give him a sarcastic look, but the image from his memory shows me knelt on the ground while six alien rapiers are held to grey throats. I scratch an imaginary itch on my forehead and look away.

            “Is that why Coulson wanted you?”

            Wanted. “No. He didn’t know I could do that.”

            “Who does?”

            My hands are shaking, so I grip my toes to warm them. “You and one other person.”

            He watches me for a while. “Had Loki asked me to do what you made them do, I would’ve done it.”

            I sit perfectly still, chewing my tongue, remembering the turmoil of that day and the calming peace of putting my mind somewhere else for a few seconds. Face in the asphalt, gun to my head, and that darkness in my heart telling me it would be okay.

            Barton has a pebble of concrete he’s rolling between his fingers. “When did SHIELD find you?”

            I swallow. “A few months ago.”

            “How? Through Tony?”

            “Yeah, I, um, caused a bit of trouble. Coulson caught me.”

            Barton smiles at that. “What did you get caught at?”

            “None of your business.”

            “But you became an asset.” He nods understandingly. “An asset for what?”

            “We never really got to that.”

            “Right, but what- Without telling me what you did, what was it he thought SHIELD would be interested in?”

            “That’s telling you.”

            “Don’t worry, I’m dense.”

            I doubt that. “I can get in and out of places without detection.”

            “Like the,” he holds up both hands and spreads his fingers, “ _poof_ you did off the roof?”

            He’s talking about the teleportation, but he looked like an idiot doing it. “Sure, like that.”

            Barton laughs, mostly at himself, and rubs his palms on his knees. “You broke into SHIELD, didn’t you?”

            “See, I knew you weren’t that dense. Jerk.”

            He just chuckles under his breath. “I think you proved during the fight that you’ve got more than just stealth skills.”

            “You mean murder? Yeah, I guess I’m good at that.”

            He clears his throat, declining to respond in kind. “What was it Coulson offered in exchange? Protection? Amnesty?”

            “Anonymity,” I answer, “and some facts about my birth family.”

            The pebble is tossed to the side. “You’re adopted?”

            This time I’m paying attention as someone exits the elevator inside. “Who’s here with you?”  

            Barton frowns, looks over his shoulder, and grunts. “Natasha.”

            I get to my feet, remembering I left the boys alone. “I better get going.”

            “She’s just checking to see where I am.”

            “I know, but I left my friends.” I straighten out my pajamas again. “They’ll wonder where I am.”

            Barton stands up too. “You’ll be alright getting home?”

            I look at him.

            “Right, never mind.”

 

            The lights are on when I return and Vince is standing in the kitchen with his cell phone to his ear. Turning quickly, he lowers it. “Where the hell were you?”

            “I just stepped out for some air, didn’t think you’d wake up.”

            “Jesus, Ace.” He drops the phone on the counter and heads back to the living room. “Come back to bed.”

            I turn out the light and follow him in the dark. He collapses on the couch, leaving the blanket off. I ease carefully onto the air mattress, trying to stifle the noise it makes.

            “Where did you go?” he asks, a hint of annoyance still in his voice.

            “I just wanted some fresh air, don’t worry about it. Sorry I woke you.”

            Vince sighs and rubs his face. “You didn’t wake me. I _noticed_ you were missing and woke up.”

            I roll over, facing away from him. “Whatever. Goodnight.”

            “Don’t be mad. You scared me.”

            “I leave all the time, Vin, what makes you scared now?”

            “Just…leave a note next time or whatever.” He turns over too, and soon I hear the soft whistle of his sleep-breathing.

            Since the next day is a Sunday, none of us has anywhere to be. Matt gets out the multi-colored, many-flavored cereals and turns on the TV. We three cram onto the air mattress, watch nostalgic cartoons from Vince’s childhood, and laugh at a daytime soap Matt’s mom once loved.

            After lunch, Vince absentmindedly plays with a strand of my hair while texting Kirsten. Matt’s dozing like an overgrown infant, and I’m attuned to the people on the street and the floors above. If anything were to happen, I’d hear it coming.

            Vince sets down his phone and tugs my hair. “Aren’t you even a little sleepy?”

            I roll over. “It’s been a good day.”

            “Matt even got a Crunchberry up his nose.”

            Matt sits up mumbling and flops over my shoulder. Vince bats at him as he tries to poke him in the eye.

            “Dude, what’re you doing?”

            “Hold still-”

            Matt continues to squash me as Vince- dissolving into giggles- wriggles out of his reach.

            “Okay.” I press my knee into the mattress and slide Matt off me.

            With a shout he grips the covers, but slides onto the floor anyhow. Vince’s phone blips, I sit up to corral my hair, and he lunges across the bed and over the side to punch Matt. They get so much enjoyment out of hitting each other.

            Matt’s gone for work by eight in the morning, and Vince and I bus to one of Stark’s restoration sites. After a sticky day of this we grab groceries and head home where Matt already has the stereo on and his feet up. Spaghetti on the stove, TV running, and open windows announcing rain on the way.

            The storm hits after the guys are asleep. Leaving a note for Vince, I jump again to Stark’s terrace. Buried in a large coat with a heavy hood that practically envelopes my face, I find a reasonably dry spot to sit beneath some scaffolding, reveling in the angry way the rain hits the sheets of plastic. I’m not out here long before the door opens.

            Barton comes running out in a T-shirt and sweats, bare feet slapping over the slick concrete. “Really? Get in here.”

            I shake off my jacket in the entryway, spattering the wall with borrowed rain. There’s a dim light over the bar, and JARVIS has a fire going, but a bottle of beer sits by one of the shadowed tall windows.

            “How long were you out there?” Barton asks, wiping water off his face with a corner of his shirt. “I didn’t see you ‘til just now.”

            “Not long.” I investigate the beer as he picks it up.

            “You want to sit over there?” He gestures vaguely to the lounge area.

            I gesture to the beer. “There another one of those?”

            He looks between me and the bottle. “How old are you?”

            “Older than you.”

            I sit down by the window as he fetches another beer. The room echoes with the pop of the cap.

            “You sit in the rain often?”

            “Only when it’s raining.”

            With a smirk he hands me the bottle and sits down across from me. “ _Why_ do you sit in the rain?”

            I take a drink and press my forehead to the window. “Storms and I have a complicated relationship.”

            Smiling, he observes my second drink with a flicker in his eye. “That’s why you’re out here at1am, you just really like storms.”

            “It’s 2am, how long have you been drinking?”

            He laughs that time, a sort of wheezing giggle. “You win.”

            I smile and continue trying to tune out his loud thoughts. “What’re _you_ still doing here?”

            He scratches his arm. “Wasting time probably.”

            I set my bottle aside and relax. “You know Coulson did what he had to do, right?”

            His mouth sets in a grim line. “I know.”

            “Good. Because you don’t seem like the kind of guy who’d go out of his way to hurt people. Coulson would’ve known that.”

            Barton stares at the floor, heavy-lidded from alcohol and lack of sleep. “Doesn’t make it less my fault.”

            I pull my hands into my sleeves.

            “You don’t want to hear all this.” Barton finishes off his bottle. “You’re probably trying to forget it all yourself.”

            I run my fingers through my hair and look at the clock.

            “Your friends, are you still…are they waiting for you?”

            “You want me to leave?”

            “No, no- Hey, if Stark doesn’t mind you here, I don’t.”

            Lightning splinters the sky, briefly illuminating the balcony. There had been no lightning when he called me to come in, so I wonder how he saw me.

            “Is there a particular reason you come here?” Barton asks, rubbing the neck of the bottle between his hands.

            “It’s the only place in the city I really know, and Stark said I was welcome.”

            Barton shifts. “You called him Tony earlier.”

            “I’m sorry?”

            “Now you’re calling him Stark.”

            “You called him Stark.”

            “I know. But you’re…friends with him.”

            “You call him Stark I call him Stark, that’s how I work.” I shrug off my damp coat. “I’m adaptable.”

            “Like you adapted to aliens?” he smirks.

            “Not my first encounter.”

            He laughs shortly, the alcohol making everything funny. “It’s making more sense why Coulson kept an eye on you.”

            “Shut up.”

            He laughs again. “Did he know that? About your first encounter?”

            “Yeah. He’s the first person I’ve told.” I finish my beer in one long drink.

            “You’re the third.”

            “Third kind?”

            Now I laugh, and maybe that’s just the beer actually doing its job for once, but it’s a relief after having been so tightly wound. I lean forward. “You want me to talk about Coulson? I need more beer.”

            The archer lowers his head and gives me a sarcastic look. “You’re like twelve years old you’ll get drunk in a second.”

            “Bet you I won’t.”

            “I’m not betting you anything, how dumb do you think I am?” With a long sigh he rises clumsily to his feet. “Hang on.”

            Over another beer and a bag of Ruffles, I retell everything about Alkali. He doesn’t mind that what I’m telling him is classified, merely raising an eyebrow when I ask if he’ll get in trouble for knowing.

            “And what was the point of all this?” he asks, setting down his third, possibly fourth empty bottle. “Were they trying to make you like Rogers?”

            “If they were they were doing a terrible job.” I can’t hold his gaze, so I look at my hands. “No, they just wanted to hurt people.”

            The rain only occasionally hits the glass now, the wind having other ideas and scattering itself over the balcony. I rest my cheek against my knee, hair falling into my face.

            Barton leans forward. “Ace?”

            “Why am I telling you all this?”

            “Why are you telling me all this?”

            I close my eyes. “You know, since I was a kid I could always tell the bad ones. The liars, the manipulators. It was just instinct, some…extra sense. The same instinct kicked in when I was with someone safe.” I smile, sleepy-headed and clinging to the alcohol’s cozy embrace. “Or I’m being very stupid.”

            He huffs. “Well, I can’t promise I’m safe. But I’m not manipulating you.”

            Turning my head, I look at him for the first time and note the lines in his face, the pockmarks, and the nose that’s been broken a few times but has always been reset. Lovingly, I’d say, by people who got to him sooner than later. He’s fit, but it’s clear by his arms and hands that his investment is in the archery- meant to take a punch, but keep drawing that bow despite it. Stiff blonde hair, thick skin, blunt fingernails; not much to look at and he knows it. There are crow’s feet forming around his eyes, and laugh lines around his mouth. He doesn’t smoke, doesn’t wear aftershave or cologne, and his clothes were last washed longer ago than he was. He’s normal, or at the very least talented at appearing so.

            Barton grows a little uncomfortable under my gaze, but gives me a minute before gazing back. I make a point of not looking away or changing my expression. He can look I just wonder what he sees. If I see a weapon in him, what does he see in me? Do I hide it better?

            Reaching across, he takes the hand resting on my ankle. He has long fingers, piano fingers I’ve heard them called, and he holds with a grip that has no intention of letting go on its own.

            “Hey. You’re falling asleep. Let me call you a cab.”      

            I don’t get a good idea of his emotions before shaking off his hand. “Where’s my coat?”

            Glancing over his shoulder, he gets up to retrieve it from the back of a chair.

            “He’s got big ideas in the works.” I scan the building materials and new furnishings in the room. “You still going to be around for them?”

            Barton hesitates as he hands me my coat. “Will I still be here or still be an Avenger?”

            I shrug as I pull on my coat and get up.

            Putting his hands on his hips, he looks around the room. “I think so. You?”

            Collecting our trash, I consider it. “No one’s asked me. I just kind of showed up last time.”

            “Huh.” He takes his own bottles over to the counter. “Then keep showing up.”

           

            Orange dish soap sputters onto the wet washcloth. Vince wrings out the excess water before lathering his arms, dappling the sink with murky black drops as he scrubs off the grease. “So that was fun.”

            I turn on the faucet to wash the run-off down the drain. “It’s not fun if you don’t come home an absolute mess.”

            He just grins, the grease on his cheek creasing. “Matt called while I was under the hood. Did he call you?”

            “He’s coming home late. Said he’s bringing ‘pizza or Chinese, or whatever.’”

            “Perfect. Chinese-whatever-pizza is my favorite.” Vince runs the dirty rag under the faucet. “Hey, I meant to ask- and don’t answer if you don’t want to- but you left again last night. Where’d you go?”

            I take the rag when he sets it down, and rub a little soap off the nozzle. “Stark Tower. Just talking to one of the Avengers there.”

            Vince sits still while I scrub the grease off his cheek. “Which one is it? Not Stark or Bruce, obviously.”

            “Just some guy. He didn’t get a lot of camera time; spent most of the battle on a rooftop.”

            “He’s the guy who got people out of that bus.”

            “How’d you know?”

            He shrugs. “Cousin of a friend of Sukraj’s was on the bus. Crazy, right?”

            “Small world. Yeah, you’re on your own.” I put the washcloth in his hand. “Dibs on the shower though.”

            The only bathroom is in the bedroom, and sharing it with two guys is as gross as one would imagine. Toilet seat always up, towels all over the floor, mysterious gunk in the sink, and an army of disorganized hair products that all indubitably belong to Matt. When I get out- after cleaning myself and the bathroom- the smell of freshly tumbled laundry greets me like a long-lost friend. I take a second to admire the neatly folded laundry laid out on the dining room table.

            “Wow.”

            Vince smiles to himself as he folds the last pair of jeans in the pile. “Laundry duty at Xavier’s has ruined me.”

            “Apparently. Matt’s not home yet I take it?”

            Vince shakes his head as he stacks all the folded clothes back in the laundry basket. “This one’s yours, right?” He hands me a T-shirt from the top of the basket.

            “No, that one’s his, I left mine at home. We got them gratis at a club.”

            He puts it back in the basket. “You guys club a lot while I was gone?”

            “Pretty much.”

            “Good,” he smirks and carries the basket into the bedroom, “I hate clubs.”

            “You were kind of a dud that first time.”

            “We were humoring the other dud, don’t put that on me.”

            I laugh. I’ve missed Vince. I often miss him more than I miss Matt. I just don’t remember enjoying spending time with Vince as much as I do lately.

            Someone approaches the front door jangling keys.

            “That him?” calls Vince.

            I head for the door and let Matt in.

            Vince pops into the vestibule. “Sonus!”

            Matt grimaces. “Do you guys still call me that when I’m not around?”

            “Sometimes.”

            “I don’t.”          

            Dragging his feet into the kitchen, Matt drops a suspiciously packaged pizza on the island counter. “So, I got this.”

            “A take-in-bake?” My stomach grumbles.

            “Does this place even have an oven?” Vince looks around the kitchen.

            “Matt, it barely has any toppings. What were you thinking?”

            “I was thinking it was a normal pizza joint, but I was exhausted and not paying attention so,” Matt waves a frustrated hand at the pizza, “there you go.”

            Vince is already fiddling with the built-in appliances. “Yep, this is an oven. Now what?”

            “We’ve been on our feet all day-”

            “So have I,” Matt counters.

            “-doing _actual_ work lugging crap all over town _._ Now I’ve got to wait for this thing to cook. Why couldn’t you just go someplace you know?”

            “God, why couldn’t you have just eaten before I got home?”

            _“Because you said you were bringing dinner.”_

            Matt tugs his tie off. “Whatever. I’m going to shower.”

            As he storms out of the room I brush my hair out of my face, staring at the pale, doughy thing on the counter.

            “A?” Vince looks at me over his shoulder, knelt in front of the open oven door.

            “There’s a bell pepper in the fridge.” My bell pepper that I bought for me. “Just cut it up and throw it on here.”

            I slide the baking instructions out of the cellophane as Vince opens the fridge.

            “There’s cheese in here too.”

            “Sure, get that.”

            From the cupboard I get down a paper plate and our only kitchen knife. The cheese is already shredded, so no worries there.

            “I’ll do it.” Vince looks me in the eye cautiously as he takes the knife.

            I smile wanly to show him I’m not angry, but I’m not altogether alright either.

            Turning to the island, he doubles back. “Sorry, need another plate.”

            Reaching above me to open the cupboard, Vince touches my arm, and I’m surprised by the warmth of it. Not that his hand itself is warm, but that the feeling expressed by the touch is. It’s how his touch sometimes felt in high school when he liked me. I thought that was over now that he has a girlfriend.

            “Sorry,” he says again, dropping back on his heels and closing the cupboard. When he removes his hand, the feeling increases.

            “I turned the oven on,” he says, “but I don’t know the right temperature. Prepare for adventure.”

            I watch the back of him as he peels paper plates apart, liking the way his shoulder blades move beneath his shirt.

            Damn it.

            Crap, crap, damn it, crap.

            He’s not the one feeling that way.

            When he walks around to the other side of the island, I turn my back on him and scream inaudibly into my hand. This is nothing like the first time with Bruce where a harmless mix of compassion and loneliness went too far. This is some gentle, dormant, sleep agent kind of attraction. No. We’re just good friends.

            Vince looks up from his work, a timid pile of shoddily sliced bell pepper looking lost at the edge of the plate. “I’m doing this wrong, aren’t I?”

            Worried about upsetting me, preparing dinner, doing laundry, keeping the peace, wearing that shirt, still having a smudge of grease on his cheek, looking at me with those big doe eyes-

Crap.


	49. Chapter 49

            A car alarm in the street becomes a police siren. Angry groans from downstairs are Chitauri hiding somewhere I can’t see them, and debris just crashed behind me. I sit up and see that night has faded into early morning. Matt has just slammed the front door in his rush to get to work, the groans are neighbors waking up, and the alarm ceases. I dreamt about fighting the Chitauri while craning my neck to see which building Barton was perched on.

            Vince, woken too by the door, turns over on the couch. His shift isn’t until later today. I should be out the door too, but the relief crews haven’t needed me much lately. Muting the synthetic complaint of the air mattress, I get up and head into the bedroom, closing the door behind me. As usual, Matt’s left the bed in complete disarray, sheets tugged free, comforter on the floor, pillows fallen behind the headboard. Picking up the comforter, I climb into bed and tuck myself in.

            Around nine Vince comes in and pauses in the doorway before heading into the bathroom. I fall back asleep and don’t wake again until I hear him opening and closing the fridge. When I do get up, he’s watching television at a low volume and eating something fried. The time over the stove is much later than I’m used to sleeping in.

            “There’s eggs and toast,” he calls.

            I find the biggest mug and nearly brim it with coffee.

            “We’re out of creamer,” he adds.

            I put the coffee down. “Milk?”

            “That too.”

            I check the fridge just in case, but he says it like it is. “I don’t want to drive all the way to the place. I’ll just get some from around here.”

            “Want me to go with you?”

            “If you want.” A tingle goes up my spine and I kick myself for it.

            A pack of kids ambles down the sidewalk ahead of us, bare-legged and bold now that school’s out and they’ve got time to kill. Vince chuckles under his breath as he watches them until they turn a corner and are out of sight.

            “Parents shouldn’t just let them go like that.” I tilt my head to hear if there are any threats down the alley they cut through. “Especially lately.”

            Vince arches his brow. “When you’re a kid trapped in an apartment with that ‘lately’ kind of stress, all you want is to get out.” His arm brushes mine, and I step to the side. “Did you ever hear anything else about your parents?”

            “Oh. I kind of let the trail go cold.”

            “Really? What about the person you were talking to?”

            I swallow. “We’re no longer…he died in the attack.”

            Vince turns his head sharply then looks away. The image of that street memorial we stopped at lingers in his memory.

            “You want to just get coffee?” I say. “Or, I don’t know, something sweet-?”

            “What happened to him?” Vince asks.

            I’m about to answer when I see that up ahead there’s some sort of gathering around a community center. A donation drive for victims of the attack. I take Vince by the arm and jaywalk. He shakes me off before we reach the curb. “Ace, quit.”

            There’s got to be a café or a bodega we can duck into. “Is there any place nearby?”

            Vince scratches his brow with his thumb. “Hell if I know. The next two blocks are all boarded up. Look up.”

            I hear the burst of flight stabilizers high overhead. “I’ve seen that dog and pony show before.”

            “What’s with you today? Why’d you skip work?”

            I put my earbuds in and turn back. “Screw this, I’m going home.”

            “Hey, hey.” Vince puts a hand out. “There’s a store down there, see? We’ll just grab some creamer and head straight home.”

            I scowl, but Vince physically turns me around and heads me down the sidewalk. “C’mon. We won’t be long.”

            I keep him between me and the community center as we pass by. If he senses my tension, he doesn’t say anything. Once we get to the bodega, Vince looks over his shoulder and hustles me inside.

            “Did you see somebody?”

            We’re the only people here, but the cashier’s ignoring us. I head to the back where the refrigerators are and wait until Vince joins me.

            “I just didn’t want to be seen.” I blink off the security camera back here too, having already turned off the one aimed at the door. “They don’t carry the creamer we got last time.”

            “Matt got it last time.” Vince points. “Get that one. Tastes the same, but it’s cheaper.”

            I open the fridge and grab a bottle. “I didn’t go to work today because SHIELD’s already done all the heavy work, and with summer on there’s a new influx of volunteers.”

             Vince nods understandingly. “You think the people at the community center would recognize you?”

            I shake my head and grab a carton of milk too.

 

            Matt yawns over his laptop. “Madge is back in Iowa.”

            “Tell her we hope she had fun,” I say.

            Matt types away at the keyboard. Vince is seated on the floor with his back to the couch texting, and I’m lying on the couch staring at a spider on the ceiling. It’s been there a couple days and won’t come down. I’m worried about it.

            Matt groans under his breath. “I haven’t been on a date in weeks. I feel like a spinster.”

            “The way you talk scares me sometimes.” I sit up.

            Vince leans his head back. “Matt, you need to settle down, find a girl with unlimited patience, and buy me a Lambo.”

            “Don’t listen to him, Mattie, he doesn’t need a Lambo. You are strong, independent young men, and you don’t need cars to complete you.”

            “Bull,” says Matt. “There’s no such thing as a woman with unlimited patience.”

            Vince throws a ball of foil chocolate wrapper in the air and catches it. “Ace has been described as patient.”

            I laugh loudly, and Matt retorts with something I don’t quite catch.

            “Hey, she’s stuck around you this long,” Vince throws the foil at me, “and she hasn’t murdered you yet.”

            “There’s still time.” I pick up the foil ball from where it landed. “He still has to move to England.”

            “Ugh,” Matt groans, “don’t remind me.”

            “Is that all taken care of?” asks Vince.

            “Yeah, Dad took care of it, but I can’t move in till August.”

            “Would you like me to help?” I ask.

            “Sure, you can help, but he practically hired my roommate. Probably to snitch on me.”

            I yawn and lie back. “Vinny, I’m taking the couch tonight.”

            “Mkay.” He gets up and heads for the bedroom.

            “Still my bed,” warns Matt.

            “I’m going to brush my teeth, don’t flatter yourself.” Vince throws another candy wrapper, and it bounces off Matt’s shoulder.

            I look up from the couch, watching him as he leaves. I stop when I sense Matt looking at me smugly. “Shut up, Larson.”

            “How long?”

            “Doesn’t matter.”

            He returns to staring at the computer screen. “Can I tell him?”

            “I said shut up.” I get off the couch and crank up the AC. Matt closes his laptop with a smirk.

 

            I skip work the next day too. Vince left two hours ago for his six hour shift, and Matt’s still at the office. If Vince heard what Matt and I were saying last night, he never let on. He’s gotten his telepathy to the point where he’ll only hear us if he’s paying attention. There’s range to factor in too, which means he might’ve heard what Matt was saying, but not what I was saying. So it’s possible he didn’t quite get the whole conversation.

            This kind of paranoia preoccupies me as I sit alone in the apartment. I turn off the TV. There's nothing to do when the guys are gone. They always have something to do. I consider calling Tony, but he's keeping busy, and the last time I went to see Barton the place was empty.

            I go for a walk, this time avoiding the trouble streets with donation boxes and memorials, petitioners and doomsayers. They’re out in full force along with a new breed of homeless that make me feel catastrophically guilty for not saving their homes too. Madge would have something positive to say, think, or feel right now, but my head refuses to work like that. I wish it would, be more like Madge. Maybe I would’ve been Madge if my life hadn’t taken a turn early on. Maybe if my parents had been as accepting as hers I would’ve turned out lovely and sweet too. Of course, her mutation is to miraculously heal people. I just grew claws.      

            After several blocks, I turn onto a street dotted with restaurants and takeout joints. I ate lunch not long ago, but upon receiving the olfactory cue my stomach starts planning for dinner.   

            “Hey,” shouts a man in a thick accent, “girl with headphones.”

            _I am wearing headphones, so just assume I can’t hear you._

I sense someone coming up behind me, but it’s a child so I ignore him until he tugs on my shirt.

            “You’re the lady who save my father and grandmader?” he stammers.

            “I- I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re-”

            The man who yelled jogs up behind him, and with a sinking feeling I recognize him as one of the people I rescued in the attack. Too late to change my face now.

            “Come,” the man says sternly, “we have dinner.”

            “No, no, I’m not- I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not them, sorry.” I add a sheepish, immature smile with it. A change in personality can be just as effective as a change in face. “I- I have somewhere to be.”

            The man looks me in the eye and purses his lips. “I am sorry.”

            “Yeah, no, that’s fine.” I chuckle.

            The boy looks between me and his dad, but the man shakes his head. “Very good woman saved my family in attack. You look just like her.”

            It’s a compliment. “Thank you.”

            He nods curtly and takes his son by the shoulder, but the boy scrutinizes me as they turn to head back down the sidewalk. Enduring the pain, I change my face at the next corner and head for home.

 

            “I didn’t know you could do that,” Matt states unhelpfully as he hands me the bottle of ibuprophen. “Was it really necessary?”

            “You underestimate how much I dislike exposure.”

            After getting home, I waited an hour for the pain to wear off, double-checking in the bathroom mirror to make sure my face was exactly the same as it was before. It seems that since the last time I did this my body is even less partial to shape-shifting.

            This time I take three pills, seeing as my last dose of two was nearly unnoticeable in its ability to reduce pain.

            “How many of those have you had?”

            “I don’t know. I usually take this many, they metabolize too quickly.”

            “Still, I think you should go easy on them.” He watches the bottle as I put it back in the cupboard. “Did Vince say anything about bringing dinner?”

            “You didn’t eat on the way here?” I smelled chili dogs on his breath when he walked through the door. “You’re going to get fat if you keep eating second and third dinners.”

            “Excuse me, since when is my diet of your concern?”

            “I hear him in the hallway, but I don’t think he brought anything. That’s right, go mope.”

            “I’m getting in the shower before he does,” Matt tugs off his overshirt, “not moping.”

            “A likely story.” I go to answer the door for Vince, then decide against it and head into the kitchen to start dinner.

            Vince lets himself in and pops his head around the kitchen archway. “Where’s Matt?”

            “He’s getting in the shower, but you might still catch him.”

            “Nah,” he takes a freezer cake out from behind his back, "got this on my way back, didn’t want to share it with greedy guts.”

            “Ooh, looks fancy but tastes like hydrogenated oils. Gimme.”

            Vince opens the box on the kitchen island, and leans toward the living room to see if Matt’s coming back. “Finish it before he gets out?”

            I hand him a fork and sink my own into a corner of cake. “I’m already beating you.”

            While shoveling cake into his mouth, Vince tells me about his day. He'd apparently just cashed his paycheck at the bank when a couple went in with a Chitauri gun and robbed the place. He was three blocks away buying cake when it happened, so he missed the whole thing. I smack him for nearly being held up, and he coughs on a flake of shredded coconut.

            I watch Vince joking and sharing his contraband cake, and recall other people who knew my old names and attitudes; people who I spent some relaxed moments with like that morning we spent eating cereal on the air mattress. Someday Vince is going to be one of those people.

            "Ugh, man, I can't eat another bite." Vince holds his stomach. "You finish it."    

            I clean up the remaining evidence while he washes the forks, then we both take long drinks of water to take the sugary smell off our breath. “If we ate something else it would be less suspicious.”

            Vince spits water down the drain. “I doubt he’d even notice. I want a salad now.”

            “I don’t know, that meat lover’s sub your coworker had sounds good to me right now.”

            Vince opens the fridge and pulls out the only tomato we have. “You’ve always been such a carnivore.” He looks up and catches me looking. “What?”

            “Nothing.” I start heading to the living room.

            "Ace."

             I look back.

            "What is it?"’

            I stop myself from repeating ‘nothing’. He doesn’t deserve it. “I knew that after the battle everything would change. It still amazes how true that is."

            Vince puts on the face he makes when I have his undivided attention. "What's changed in particular?"

            I try to look relaxed by hooking my thumbs in my pockets. "You know Tony almost died? His girlfriend was hugging him and crying, and I just stood there like an idiot 'cause I didn't realize... Tony knew Coulson too- my SHIELD guy- and seemed pretty choked up when he told me what'd happened. Then just the way he hugged Pepper, like he was done taking people for granted.”

            I scratch the back of my head. “I've been witness to Tony and Pepper's relationship since before they were ‘together’, and…of the two of us I better understand how little time we have to be with the people we love.”

            I swallow and lean back against the couch, get nervous, and stand up straight again. "I love you. Not the friendly love that I've thought I have, but the kind Tony and Pepper have.”

            Vince’s expression doesn’t change much. “How long?”

            “A little after you got back.” I keep his gaze, not insulting him by looking away as I would like to.

            “And you didn’t know that was how you felt or you would’ve told me sooner.”

            “You left for California-”

            “You mean after I got back from the Brotherhood? Damn. And you didn’t recognize until after aliens landed that you felt this way?”

            “Vince, you know how much I dislike you being on the other side of the continent, but when the aliens landed I was _relieved_. I thought, ‘Yes, he’s nowhere near here, this can’t hurt him.’ And then I saw all your voicemails, and you came home, and you helped me during that video crisis. The last few weeks have changed everything and I don’t know how to change this feeling back. I really care about you.” I blink a few times to remind myself I’m not a crier. “You deserve to know that.”

            Vince presses his lips together and looks at his hands. “You know, I’ve seen you do like two intense things since I’ve met you. But I was so scared when I left those voicemails. I was…mad because I wasn’t there, and you wanted me to be.”

            The shower shuts off and we both stand up a little straighter.

            “Look,” I cross my arms, “I don’t want to mess things up between you and Kirsten, I really don’t. She’s making you happy- and being in California is making you happy- so I’m not suggesting you change anything that’s working for you. I just…I’ve kept too much from people who mattered, and then never got another chance.”

Vince sort of smiles, but stops himself. “Does Matt know all this?”

            “Matt knows nothing.” I glare at the bedroom. “He just thinks he does.”

            Now he smiles. “Thanks for thinking about Kirsten.”

            “Of course. You’re her problem now. Matt’s going to want second dinner.”

            With a tired sigh, he nods and heads into the kitchen. “I’ll feed him his kibble.”

            I stay where I am, hoping that I did the right thing. Yet, as he walks away, I realize he has no obligation to walk back.


	50. Chapter 50

            Don’t bother Scott. Be careful how you talk to Scott. If Scott seems disoriented, find Jean immediately.

            This is how Kitty greeted me when I got back.

            “It’s nothing serious,” she said with a nonchalant wave of the hand, “he’s just not himself since the mission.”

            Piotr was more forthcoming, but he looked over my head before answering each question. He repeated Kitty’s admonition to act carefully around Scott, informing me that his teaching duties will be limited until his mental health improves.

            From an alcove, I listen to a hushed conversation between Logan and Jean. According to her, Scott’s become distant, keeping to himself while shutting her out. The “aftereffects” aren’t clearing up, she says, but he won’t let her in to help. Logan suggests he’s afraid to.

            “What are you doing?” asks a voice over my shoulder.

My skin prickles. I do not like this woman. I didn’t get a chance to meet her before leaving for the summer, but I’ve been back less than a week and she already rubs me the wrong way. Raising my head, I let the open book in my lap speak for itself.

            Emma arches her brow. “You chose to read here?”

            Her telepathy’s a bit too keen for my taste, so I refrain from even thinking what I want to say. Instead, I ignore her and look back at my book.

            Boring of me, she walks away, and I ditch the eavesdropping and jump to my room. Nowadays I teleport whenever I can, getting my walking done on weekends when I volunteer in the city. As often as I can I wear a different face while in public, otherwise people pause to stare at me. There must be another video of me online, or else I wouldn’t be this recognizable.

            “It’s really my face?”

            Matt kicks a sack of clothes under his new bed. “Probably some creeper with a zoom-in lens. Here give me that, I have it bookmarked.”

            I clutch the laptop bag I’m carrying. “I don’t want to see it. Just tell me what happens. What do I do in this video?”

            Matt glares at a note left by his new roommate. “What the hell is a dove-ette?”

            I look at the note too. “Duvet. He’s saying he got you a new comforter. What was in this video?”

            “God, Ace, nothing. You save a guy from a car fire and then put out the fire.”

            I stifle a frustrated scream. That tourist kid with the Nokia. “I might throw up on your duvet.”

            Matt crumples the note. “Go for it. You still in the apartment, by the way?”     

            “On weekends.” I set his things down on the floor. “Why, how much longer can I stay?”

            “Dad’s keeping it till January I think, but I can’t afford to keep bribing the housekeeper.”

            I look out of the flat’s third story window. “You’ve got a great view. You can even see a corner of the green if you angle a little.”

            "I think that's just some other lawn." A drawer shunts shut. “But there’s a classy little pub a few blocks away where I’m meeting some people later. Care to join?”

            “Knowing you the people probably aren’t as classy as the pub.”

            “Hey, they’re English, they’re born with class.”

            “And supposedly so were you, yet.”

            Matt pinches me. "How's Scott doing, any better?"

            I zip up my sweater. "Jean's worried, that's all I know. He seemed alright when I talked to him the other day, but..."

            Nodding his head, Matt checks to make sure his phone and wallet are on him before ushering me out the door. "Summers is the man with the plan. He’ll be alright.”

 

            After the guys moved out, I was unprepared for the hollow loneliness that would take their place. Thus, I moved all our household things out of the apartment and into my completed room at Stark Tower, where I stayed unnoticed by anyone but JARVIS.

            I brush hair out of my eyes as I stare through the smoke and adjust my earpiece. Logan looks sidelong at me.

            “You programmed this one, didn’t you?”

            “What gave you that idea? On your left, Terry.”

            A piercing shriek signals the end of those aliens, followed by a whoop a block away.

            “That kid’s too happy to kill things,” mutters Logan.

            “He’s just hyper,” I say, as enemy fire disintegrates into the field hanging over our heads. My nerves twitch and jump with each hit, but I’ve kept the field up for a solid eight minutes now, long enough to let the kids get some groundwork done without running for cover every few seconds.

            “Recendez, Haslett,” Logan snaps into his comm., “we’ve got a big one comin’ in.”

            Two of our bulkier students leap from their positions and onto a small-scale Leviathan. It roars with confusion, belly skimming the surface of my field and sending tremors down my spine.

            “Rodriguez got himself tangled up again,” Logan observes drily.

            “Could you-“

            “Yeah, yeah.” He leaves to handle the imperiled student. I step out from my cover and yank a chariot out of the air. “You’re doing great, guys. Field’s coming down now, so watch out."

            My body shudders as the field finally drops, but I don’t feel exhausted. I could do this all the time.

            “I told you you’d teach Danger. They terrified of you yet?”

            “Not when I’m with Logan.” I shift the phone to my other shoulder as I snap the binder rings back into place. “I’m the nice one.”

            Vince chuckles. “I see Stark’s back in Malibu. Could you get him to stop by and make me look awesome?”

            “I’ll get right on that. Are you coming back for Thanksgiving?”

            “Don’t know yet,” he answers rather flatly, “I might have plans here.”

            I close my eyes. “Right. Keep me posted.”

            Lately, Vince has developed a tone for when he wants me to get off his case. I try to oblige him because the last thing I want is to annoy him. I miss him like crazy, and I’m mad at myself for it. I’m mad and I don’t know why, just that I messed us up. He doesn’t have to ever come back, he doesn’t owe me anything, but I’ve left my ball in his court and that was a dumb, dumb decision.

            "You're acting weird,” Logan comments. “What’s wrong?”

            I look under the break room table. “Just looking for Scott's tutoring folder for algebra, he said he left it in here."

            "Eh, I’d probably look elsewhere then." Logan opens the freezer. "Are you the one who keeps doing this?"

            Glancing up, I snort. “No, Bobby.”

            He takes out the frozen beer can and rolls it onto the counter. "So. How're things going with the guys?"

            "Fine." Suspicious. "Why?"

            “Vinny and I had a talk while he was-”

            "No."

            “-getting ready to leave for California.” He hands me the frozen beer. "So now I'm talking to you."

            "Uh-uh, what is this? This isn't something you've ever worried about with Rogue or Kitty. What did he tell you?"

            "That you're a stubborn, suspicious person even when it comes to your best friends. What's changed?"

            I shift. "He was rough to get along with, needed to grow up. Now he's...he's nice. He's still a jerk, but he's nice about it."

            Logan mulls over that.             

            “I should never have said anything.” I drop the frozen beer can in the sink. “There would never have been any problems between us if we’d just kept our stupid minds to ourselves.”

            With a sigh, Logan goes to find a warm beer instead. I pick at a loose hem on my shirt. “How’s Jean doing with Scott? She seems stressed.”

            Finding a beer, Logan closes the cupboard with his knee and turns, eyebrow raised. “Back to your old ways, I see.”

            I press my tongue into my cheek. “Still talking about me behind my back, I see.”

            “Raising you required a lot of second opinions, so don’t even start with that again.”

            “And getting any idea of how to live around here seems to require a lot of eavesdropping, which- in a place as rife with mind-readers as this one- is common practice.” I cross my arms. “So, can _you_ tell me about this disaster of a mission that I missed out on? I’ve been waiting months to know what the hell happened.”

            Swearing tiredly under his breath, Logan sits down at the table and pops open the first in a six-pack. I sit down too.

            “It wasn’t a rescue, there was no public emergency. It was an old enemy with a bone to pick. Emma worked for him.” Logan downs as much beer in one lift as he can, and sighs. “Except now they had someone else working with them too. Capable of mind control and suffering from a god complex. Not going into all the details, but he took over the operation shortly after we got there. That’s when everything went downhill.

            “He played around in our heads for a week, making us think we were safe then sifting through every sensitive spot he could find. Scott somehow got the upper hand and let him play hell in his head instead. Bastard thought that was funny, but he still didn’t let us go. No one knew where Kitty was for another week after that. We thought we lost her in the first fight when one of Scott’s blasts caused a landslide.”

            Logan looks at the beer can and swallows. “Turns out she was free the whole time and was just looking for a way to get us out too. Far as I know, he didn’t meddle with her.”

            I fill in the blanks. _Emma did though._

            One more long drag and the can is empty. He cracks open another.

            “How is it she’s here?”

            Logan takes a drink before answering. “She came through in the end. We made it out by the skin of our teeth with her help, but Jean was the powerhouse. I’ve never seen…” He trails off, brows knitted as he thinks.

            “You’ve never seen-?” I coax.

            He licks his lips, actually hesitating to take another drink. “Jean got us out. I’m still not sure how.”

             I remember how she was when she arrived, how energy seemed to radiate from her. “But she’s alright now.”

            “No, there was nothing wrong with her.” His brows stay furrowed. “I think she just didn’t realize her own strength.”

            The school bell rings and I get up. “Was Vin worried about…about what I said?”

            Logan stands up and puts his remaining beers back. “Worried about you mostly. Said you have a lot going on since the attack.”

            I raise my eyebrows and head out the door.  

 

            Matt tosses a candy wrapper at the overfilled theater garbage can. “They broke up like, last week. He didn’t tell you?”

            “That idiot. Give me your phone.”

            “Vin and Kirsten broke up?” Madge asks. When she heard I was going to the movies with Matt in England, she dropped everything and willingly risked teleporting. “We’re Facebook friends, how did I miss that?”

            Matt scowls as I snatch his phone from him. “He took the update down pretty fast.”

            “I hope he’s okay,” Madge continues. “They were really cute together.”

            “Forget it.” I stop dialing and return Matt’s phone.

            “Ix-nay on the- _cough-_ ‘cute together’-nay.” Matt pokes Madge in the side.

            “That’s not how pig Latin works, moron.” I smack his belly, wondering too if Kirsten’s okay. Madge raises one eyebrow and looks between us, so I quickly change the subject. “Matt, will you be home for Thanksgiving?”

            “Ugh, yes. Mom’s shoehorning me into having Thanksgiving with her family. I don’t even know those people.”

            Madge gives a sympathetic half-smile. “You’ll have a nice time, Mattie. Think of the turkey.”

            “I actually prefer ham.”

            “Then think of pie,” I cut in. “Vince said he might be staying in Cali for Thanksgiving, but if they did break up then his plans might’ve changed. Anyway, come on, Madge.”

            “Hey,” Matt catches my hood as I start to walk away, “if I do end up getting stuck with my mom’s relatives, will you be my date?”

            “Matt, I’m sorry, but that sounds absolutely miserable.”

            “I’ll go,” pipes Madge, the poor thing.

            I shake my head firmly, and Matt makes a face. “Yeah, my family’s kinda...I wouldn’t want to put you through that, Maggie. Ace can handle it.”

            “Well now I’m just aching to go,” I say, checking the time.

            “So, we’ll sneak out early and drive to Xavier’s.” He gives that charming grin of his. “It’ll be fun.”

            I roll my eyes because he used the grin, but it does work on me. “Maybe. But if Vince comes home I don’t want to abandon him just so you can disappoint your mother.”

            “My mother can never be disappointed by me.”

            “I’m no expert, but I think you underestimate mothers.” I squint at the gray sky. “I’ll rescue you if I can, but right now Madge and I have a student curfew to meet.”

            Madge perks up at the sound of Big Ben tolling. “You know I owe you a humongous favor after this, right?”

            I try not to look too flattered. “It took some crazy physics to get you over here. Let me know if you feel dizzy or forgetful in the coming days.”

            Her lips quirk in that cute way they do and she looks at Matt. “See you on the web?”

            Matt taps her on the nose and grins broader.

           

            Vince pulls off his sweater and throws it on his bed. “Once again, I swear it wasn’t because of you. We weren’t that interested in each other anymore, and she found someone she liked better.”

            “Are you okay with that?”

            “Why not? She’s a nice girl she can be with who she wants.”

            I lean back in his desk chair. “Compared to Matt’s break-ups, that’s practically utopian.”

            “Well, I definitely use the poor guy as an example of what _not_ to do. Don’t tell him I said that.”

            I smile. “I’m still sorry I messed us up this time.”

            “Just do what I did,” he smirks, “tell yourself you’re not in love with me.”

            “I tried that, I’ve been trying that. But you’re still you and you know I love you, and…How the heck did you do it?”

            “It was just a high school crush. If anything, I had to join the Brotherhood to get over you. I guess your equivalent would be joining the X-Men or the Avengers.”

            I shake my head. “I’ve got too much work to be on a team now. Heck, I’ve got too much work to go to Matt’s thing tonight.”

            “Are you kidding? We can’t leave him there; he’s our damsel in distress.”

            “Yeah, yeah. You still didn’t answer my initial question; does this outfit look fancy enough to have dinner with billionaires?”

            Crossing his arms, Vince gives me a good long look. “Are you wearing shoes?”

            “Yes.”

            “Then you’re already too fancy for a party with my relatives.”

            I sigh as I leave. “Useless.”

 

            Matt drove me along the breezy, coastal road to his family’s place in the Hamptons, his expression icy and his mannerisms agitated. When the road turns onto a private lane, the sand and the beach grasses continue for an acre before giving way to an endless manicured lawn. The house itself is everything I expected- broad verandah, high ceilings, polished wood flooring, and a ridiculous white staircase leading to the second floor.

            “Half an hour, tops,” he promises again as I’m led into the kitchen. “But please- pretty please- don’t…eat anything. I’m not trying to be a jackass, but you know how you eat.”

            “Like a starved coyote,” I say drily, repeating an observation of his in past. “You know, considering the number of times I’ve taken you home when you were too sloshed to walk-”

            “Ooh, yeah, don’t mention those times either.”

            “Matt,” I put on my nicest tone, “I’m doing you a huge favor. Please don’t tick me off while I’m here, or all sorts of things might happen.” 

            “Mattie,” exclaims a richly feminine voice, “when did you get here?”

            Pure blond hair- with the help of dye- an altered nose, French tips, and an excessively glittery cocktail dress. Add to all this the cavalcade of Chanel N°5 accented by a hint of bourbon, and this is indisputably Matt’s mother.

            “Oh, look at you,” she hooks one arm around his neck and pulls his head to her shoulder, “you’re so pale. Please come back next semester, England is so dreary.”

            “Mhm,” Matt mumbles into her shoulder. “Where is he?”

            “Who’s this?” Mrs. Larson’s tone of voice changes notably as she studies me with a level gaze.

            “It’s Amy.”

            “Who’s Amy?”

            “She’s just an old friend.” He’s never told her about me. “I’ve got to talk to Dad, where is he?”

            “Matthew Bernard, I haven’t seen hide or hair of you in six months and the first thing you want to do is see your father?”

            Matt mutters as he heads for another door leading out of the kitchen. “Is he in his den?”

            “Lord knows, he’s probably bolted himself in upstairs.” Mrs. Larson follows after her son. “They won’t be here for another fifteen minutes and he’s already being a pain in the ass.”

            “When isn’t he a pain in the ass?”

            Their back-and-forth continues down the hall while I stay put and give all the party platters a look over. Don’t eat anything, yeah right. I’ll eat whatever I want.

            At one point I hear Mrs. Larson’s voice ringing heavily pathetic.

            “Mom, I told you, I’m not staying, I’ve got plans.”

            “You’ve always ‘got plans’, but they’re never to stay home with your miserable mother.”

            “You’re not miserable,” Matt replies tiredly. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

            A car pulls up in the roundabout, then another. I clear my throat and wonder if I shouldn’t have followed Matt too. The doorbell rings and I wait to see if any of the Larsons will respond, when a fourth person in the household walks into the foyer. Peeking out through the frosted glass door of the kitchen, I spot a well-dressed man approach the front entrance. Servant.

            A male voice rises harshly from somewhere else in the house, and Matt’s voice with it. Six people in the foyer, and I a pheasant about to be flushed. Tip-toeing out the second kitchen door, I follow the sound of Matt’s arguing.

            “After all that trouble at BU, you really expect me-”

            “Dad, it’s not that much more, and I’ll pay you back when-”

            I block them out to focus on the sound of ice cracking in warm bourbon. Matt’s mother is behind the door to my left, but contrary to my silent prayer she doesn’t stay there. Glass in hand, the forty-two-year-old ex-beauty queen drifts into the hallway and leans back against the doorframe, sipping quietly. “So, are you one of Mattie’s little girlfriends?”

            Relatives chatter in the background, talking about Jackie. “No, those never last as long as I have.”

            Mrs. Larson swirls her glass. “I bet you want him for his money.”

            And you married Daddy Dearest for his riveting personality? I smile. “The last thing I need is his money.”

            A gunshot perforates the silence. Jackie Larson screams, spilling her bourbon on the walnut floor. I immediately locate Matt, en route to the hallway.

            “What the-”

            “Front lawn,” I answer.

            A gray-haired man Matt’s height follows after him. “That better not be your cousin because I’ll kill him.”

            With that, Robert Larson pushes past us and into the kitchen. One man stands in the two-acre front lawn, a man I mistook for an arriving relative when I heard him approach on foot. Matt’s father, who isn’t as old as he’s pretending to be, stalks toward the window. “Bastard.”

            “Really? At the house?” Matt jabs a finger at the window. “This happens at the house now?”

            “Robert, what the hell is going on?” Jackie leans toward the window, unable to smother her curiosity. I step forward to pull her back, but Robert does it for me.

            “Of course the first thing you do when there’s a crisis is bumble your way into the crossfire.”

            Jackie pushes him off and walks away from the window, proud but embarrassed. I look at Matt tangibly fuming, and raise my eyebrows. He looks sidelong at me, momentarily confused, then furrows his brow and mouths a ‘no’.

            “C’mon, Robert,” the stranger shouts, “haven’t got all night.”

            Robert stands to the side of the window, glaring down into the yard, clenching his trembling hands into fists. The servant is already on the phone with the police, and Jackie rolls her eyes and walks into the foyer. “I have guests.”

            Matt takes me by the arm. “Forget this, we’re going out the back way.”

            On the car ride home, I ask if there’s something else we should have done.

            “Nothing will happen,” he insists. “They just argue and then the cops come, nothing new.”

            “But that happens often?” I stare at him in the dark, the lights from the dashboard reflecting in his eyes. “Whose bad side did your dad get on?”

            “Who knows? I swear it’s someone different every time.”       

            “And you really don’t know why people are hostile towards him?”

            Matt presses his tongue into his cheek and glances at me. “This is the man who didn’t even tell me that he and mom would be in Europe for two months when I was eight. You think he’d tell me now why people are showing up in our front yard with guns? I don’t bother asking anymore. Just drop it.”

            I uncross my arms to rub my eyes then curse myself quietly when I remember I put on real makeup. “You know I worry about you, right?”

            Matt swallows to clear his throat, and turns on the radio. I press my forehead to the window and watch as the city crawls by.       

* * *

 

            Vince sets the can down, not exactly a fan of Logan’s choice of beer. “Alright, what are you listening to?”

            Logan raises an eyebrow, but his head remains slightly inclined. “She’s home.”

            There’s a gentle sound of impact as Vince’s forehead meets the tabletop.

            “Better get going,” Logan says, reclaiming the can and drinking it himself. “Before she gets caught up with her friends.”

            “I can’t do this.”

            Logan comes around to the other side of the table and pulls Vince’s chair back, startling him. “Get going _now_.”

            The stables deliver a stronger odor in the inclement weather than usual, but when he opens her door there’s a distinct trace of perfume. A few steps in and he trips over her dress discarded right where she took it off.

            “Hey, dude.” Ace stands by the desk in jeans and a t-shirt trying to take off a necklace. “Turns out Matt’s family is crazier than we thought.”

            Vince swallows. “He’s here, right?”

            “Yeah, he’s talking to Scott. Poor guy, he was probably hoping for a stress-free night here, but Scott’s really-”

            “I want you.”

            Ace hesitates before turning to face him with wide eyes.

            “Do you still want me?”

            Letting out a pent up breath, she gives him a sarcastic look. It takes no time at all to cover the ground between them. Taking her face in his hands, Vince leans in for a kiss, but hesitates. Her pulse throbs against his fingertips, and he wonders what made him think he could just do this without asking.

            “Can you help me get this necklace off first?”She bites her lip, eyes laughing.

            He mangles the clasp, but kissing her is like stepping into another world altogether. When it’s over, Ace wraps her arms around him, and he holds on in return resting a hand on her head. For a while neither of them speaks.

            Ace pulls back to look him in the eyes. “So now what?”

            Vince feels his own smile spread through every part of him. “You let me kiss you again.”   

            Smirking, she makes a face. “I don’t know how to kiss.”

            He shrugs. “Then I’ll show you.”

            She crosses her arms. “And if we mess up? I mean, if we really mess up and it all ends in tears?”

            Vince holds his arms out at his sides. “Then we gave it our best shot. We can’t blame ourselves for that, can we?”

            “You underestimate my ability to blame myself.”

            Vince steps forward again, looking her in the eyes. “Then I take all the blame ahead of time.”

            “You’ll say anything at this point, won’t you?”

            “I _really_ want to kiss you again.”

            Ace sighs and closes her eyes, and those fine lips of hers are like coming home at last.


	51. Chapter 51

            I am freaking awesome.

            Storm appraises me as I saunter out of the locker room. “I hear no one died today.”

            “Amazing, right? You leave me in charge and no one dies, incredible.”

            “My apologies again for being absent.” Her tired sigh ends with a smile. “Scott says he was going to ask you to join the team before the incident.”

            I shake out my damp hair and comb it with my hand. “So it seemed.”

            “He believes you have reservations now after what’s happened.”

            I’ve always had reservations, but unless I’m speaking with Logan I can’t explain them to another team member. “Tell Scott to put me wherever there’s use for me. I trust him.”

            “You should tell him yourself.”

            “Well, you know, if you see him before I do.” I nod at a waving student as I pull my hair back with a loose tie.

            Storm continues studying me. “How realistic were the media reports about Manhattan? Was it actually an army?”

            “Army sounds accurate.”

            Storm crooks a concerned brow and looks down the hall at Cerebro. “Rate of retaliation?”

            “Nil.” I stuff my hands in my pockets. “But they’re not the only ones out there.”

            “What did they want?”

            “Hell if I know,” I reply, impatient to get away.

            The sight of trodden snow on the way to the stables gives me a faint sense of dread. Vince did say he might arrive a day early, but I was kind of hoping he wouldn’t. It was nice last time I saw him- the kissing was strange- but he had to leave for school the next day which meant I was left with several weeks to develop a mild regret.

            But as I step over the footprints- smaller and lighter than his- I pick up a female scent. Concentrating, I locate the lone human heartbeat in the stables, and taste a mild perfume. The agent Romanoff, always showing up in places she shouldn’t be.

            I stand in the snow, my own heart beating wildly. If she’s out here then Xavier already knows. She may even have cordially introduced herself, but I don’t know why she’d walk into a place like this uninvited. This isn’t somewhere she can pretend to belong, and these aren’t people she can easily deceive.

            With a start she pivots to face me as I land not three yards away from her.

            “Who let you in?” I ask.

            She swallows, and gives a small smile. “Clint said you’d do that.”

            Ignoring her, I wait for an answer. Gathering her wits and putting on a very casual expression, she says,

            “Gruff Canadian with sideburns. Told me I’d find you here.”

            “No he didn’t.” Although she isn’t lying.

            Romanoff purses her lips and tilts her head. “I’m not here to make trouble, Ace. Clint asked that I come see you.”

            Again, no lies, but people who’ve been lying for so long believe everything they say. No increased heart rate, no mental dissonance, just words falling from a rehearsed tongue. It takes me a minute to remember Clint is Barton’s first name. “Why would he ask you to do that?”

            “Because he’s worried about you. And he trusts me.” The way she says it, as though it’s a recommendation. “He says you already know what Loki did to him. When you met him he wasn't so bad, but the extent of the damage-” She presses her tongue into her cheek. “He’s being monitored at a secure location, and should make a full recovery. He wants you to know he intends to make contact when he’s released.”

            I hear Vince approaching the building. _Trouble. Stay inside._

            Natasha notices the change in my attitude, but Vince barely hesitates to obey. I disguise his retreating footsteps by walking over to a cabinet and unlocking it. The horses all shuffle to their gates, muttering in hopes for a treat. The mansion door shuts.

            “Clint was tired and drinking when he spoke with me,” I say. “I didn’t think he meant anything he said.”

            Natasha watches my actions carefully. “He meant it, but he has the bad habit of taking on more than he can handle. I noticed you’ve moved into your suite.”

            I glance at her over my shoulder as an old roan brushes pillowy lips over my palm. “The tower?”

            She smiles with just the corner of her mouth. “Now that you’re on the team, you’ll find Clint thinks he can support everybody.”

            Oh good, I’m unofficially part of two teams now. “So, what are his symptoms? Is it PTSD, or something else?”

            “Disorientation, disassociation, episodes of dramatics- that’s the shortlist. He’s in good hands. He just wanted to make sure _you_ were adjusting well.”

            I wipe off my hands. “Tell him he shouldn’t worry.”

            “I tell him that often,” she says with a hint of humor. “There is another reason I’m here.”

            Of course there is. I don’t respond, but resume locking the cabinet. She recovers the silence easily.

            “SHIELD still has you listed as a consultant- Sorry, not you,” she puts up both hands disarmingly, “an anonymous informer.”

            I don’t like the way she acts, like these are lines in a play and she’s putting on a show. “And you’re here to consult?”

            “That’s not in my job description, but I am here to see if you’re still interested in the position. Barton seemed to infer that you were trading information with Coulson. If that were the case, he asked that-”

            “No.” Hell no. “We’d concluded our agreement as there was nothing left to discuss. Please thank Barton for his concern, but there’s nothing I need from SHIELD.”

            Ms. Romanoff smiles and clasps her hands in front of her. “I wasn’t finished. This is between you and Clint, I’m just the intermediary. He’s not trying to get information out of you, but if there was something left to fulfill on Coulson’s part he’d like to help out. You don’t have to tell me what it is.”

 _You_ _do not know this woman, you do not know this woman._ Since our first encounter in Malibu, she’s seen through me as though I were glass. People don’t notice me in general, but when they do they’re women. I do my best to avoid women. “I already told Clint that the matter was resolved. Is he suffering from memory loss as well, or does he just not believe me?”

            Ms. Romanoff lifts her chin. “He believes you.”

            Finally. The hairs at the back of my neck prickle, but unlike last time, it isn’t out of fear. “Then I think we’re finished here. Do you need me to escort you back to your car?”                      

            One copper brow arches, and her hands unclasp with a casual swing. “I can find my own way back. Thank you.”

            I smile wanly and stay where I am until she’s left the building. Listening, I make sure she enters the mansion and indeed goes back the way she came. I’ve got a Canadian to find.

Vince is waiting for me in the mudroom, scratching the back of his head and looking sheepish. “Is everything okay?”

            “Where’s Logan?”

            “He was down by study hall last I saw him.”

            I jump there. “Why did you let her in?”

            Logan looks up annoyed, and takes his feet off the desk. “Front door ain’t exactly locked. She asked how to find you, I directed her back outside. Figured you could handle yourself.”

            “Did the fact that I’ve never had visitors before fail to tip you off that she shouldn’t be here, or did you just see red hair and let her sidle on by?”

            He glowers.

            “Don’t do it again.” I turn on my heel to leave.

            _"Hey,"_ he strides into the hallway after me, "how am I supposed to know who all you spend time with nowadays? You’re never here, and when you’re away I don’t know who or _what_ you’re seeing."

            “Why do you care? It’s not like I’m running a crime ring or sleeping with strangers. I work 24/7, I stay in shape, I eat healthy, I see my friends- friends you know- and the worst I do is go to bed after midnight. What more do you want from me?”

            He scowls. “Ace, I’m not worried about you. But you were supposed to tell me some things by now, things you’ve told others, things I never get to hear. As someone who’s put a lot of work into you, I’m entitled to a bit of insight.”

            “Insight? Okay. You set me up with Vince because suddenly he listens to you, and suddenly you care. I was supposed to be an X-Man by now, but that didn’t happen. The Avengers seem to think I’m part of their gang, which is news to me because last I checked one of them is off-planet, one’s in India, Tony’s in Malibu, another two are trying to readjust, and the one who despises me just sashayed past you and marked her territory. Is that insight enough?”

            A veritable storm cloud rests on his shoulders. “Set you up with Vince, huh?”

            “That's what you got out of that?”

            “Since you were in school you’d rather tell your friends things than me,” he says. “It bothers me when you keep things from me- makes me wonder what I did to deserve it.”

            I run my hands through my hair, hating the smell of the shampoo that was in the locker room today. “I never know what you want me to tell you. I told you about Manhattan, my upbringing, and why I didn’t age. There just isn’t much left after that.”

            He’s grinding his teeth, but not in anger. He knows he’s made a mistake. "Scott had words for you. I'd catch him before he forgets them."

 

            Scott rubs his forehead and looks around the staff kitchen.

            “Assignment four, it’s beneath that yellow paper.”

            His eyes fall on the spot and he sighs disconsolately. “Was there anything else? How’s Haslett doing with the vertigo?”

            “Fine, and Joe doesn’t trip over his own feet quite as often. Everyone else is doing a good job. Maybe not to your standards, but good.” I glance at his face. “The other papers are to your left.”

            “Please don’t do that.”

            “Sorry.”

            He reaches for the papers. “I keep forgetting to ask, but this New York team, who are they?”

            I hear the subtext. “They aren’t trouble. They won’t be trouble.”

            “And you know Tony Stark pretty well.”

            “I know a few of them well. They’re good people. Freaks, all of them,” I crack a smile, “just not mutants.”

            Scott smiles back, and it’s refreshing. “As long as they make our job easier. Matt seems frustrated.”

            He usually calls him by his last name. “He’s going through a mid-life crisis. I hear college kids have those.”

            Scott laughs flatly, almost like it hurts. “I know it’s hard, but stay in contact with him. Let him know he’s never too far from home.”

            “I will.” I glance at his empty coffee cup. “Refill?”

            “Please. Thank you.”

            I’m emptying a single packet of sugar into the mug when Vince enters the kitchen and leans against the fridge.

            “Crap, sorry.” I give him an apologetic look. “I got distracted.”

            He just raises an eyebrow in an irritatingly vague way and nods to the pot. “There enough for another cup?”

            “Help yourself.” I move out of the way. “This is for Scott, by the way.”

            Vince shrugs. “I’ve never seen you drink coffee anyway.”

            There’s a graphite stain on the side of his hand. He’s never been one for drawing, but one of his professors encouraged it. He leaves his coffee to settle while he washes the graphite off under the sink. “That was a SHIELD agent.”

            I clear my throat.

            “What’d she want?”

            “Don’t know.”  I look at the kitchen door. “I’ll be right back.”

            Vince shakes his head. “Just meet me outside.”

            On my way back I grab one of the dinner plates from the cafeteria and race it out to the stables. We don’t usually eat at the appropriate times anymore, but I feel bad for forgetting him like I did. Vince perks up at the sight of dinner, and makes room for me to set it on the desk. His room has a bigger desk and two chairs, but we both prefer the solitude out here. Halfway through the mashed potatoes, Vince clears his throat. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

            I sit still, knowing the blood is rushing to my cheeks.  

            “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked- It was cheesy. Like something out of those movies you hate.”

            I rub my thumbs together, wishing I knew of a clever way to dispel the awkwardness. Taking the fork, I start spearing kernels of corn onto the tines. “It wasn’t bad, I just…wasn’t ready.”

            He tucks his hands between his knees- my room is rather chilly- and leans forward. “So, what do you want to do? Do you want to go slow, do you want me to back off-”

            “Slow,” I interrupt. “I’m sorry I’ve never done this before. It’ll take some time getting used to. Is that okay?”

            “Of course it’s okay. You don’t have to ask.”

            I twirl the fork slowly, critiquing my work. “I just don’t want to make you wait longer than you already have.”

            At this, Vince laughs. “I think I left a few times and dated other people. You didn’t make me wait for anything.”

            I scrape the corn off on the side of the plate. “Yes, but Logan says you’re crazy about me.”

            “Logan thinks everyone’s crazy.”

            “So you’re not crazy about me?”

            He sucks in his lips and smiles with his eyes. “I’m not answering that.”

            I laugh under my breath, feeling shy for some reason. _This is strange._

            Vince stands up and takes the plate. _It’ll get less strange. I promise. We’ll finally be normal for once._

            I smile at the irony, but it strikes a chord. Handing him the fork, I stand up too. “Come back with ice cream.”

            Leaning up, I kiss him gently on the cheek, linger a little, and pull away. 

 

            Decaying paper, old ink, and countless hands.

            I hand the book back to Madge. “Definitely that old book smell.”

            She grins and puts it back on the shelf. “Sometimes I just buy books for the way they feel, you know? New books are okay, but old books have so much personality. Here, hold this one.”

            Another used book is stuffed into my gloved hands. Humoring her, I appraise it like a collector, testing its weight and the way the pages turn. “Oh. There’s a pressed flower in this one.”

            “Really?” Madge leans forward with held breath as though I were holding out the first copy of the bible. “I love finding those.”

            Matt is chuckling somewhere which means either the cashier did manage to show him where their vintage porn is kept, or he’s found a book of classical art.

            Madge takes the flower book back from me. “Keeping.”

            “Are you going to read it?”

            “Already did. I have five copies of _Gone with the Wind_ back home _._ Won’t hurt to have another.”

            Vince taps me on the shoulder, so I turn around. He’s holding up some old engineering book or other, and points to a black and white photo of a mustachioed man. “That’s Tony Stark’s dad?”

            “Get out.” I snatch the book from him. “He’s actually younger than him in this picture.”

            “So, I’ve seen enough art for one day.” Matt swaggers over, glances at the book in my hands, and glances away again. “There are only so many sculptures of naked men one can look at before turning gay.”

            I hand Vince his book and look over my shoulder at Madge. “Well, Belle here decides when we leave. I wouldn’t cross her.”

            “Oh no, it’s fine.” Madge sets a book back on the shelf and adjusts the stack in her arms. “I’m good to go.”

            “You got enough money for all that?” I ask.

            Madge nods surely, but there’s a glazed look in her eye and she nods too much.

            I check my pockets. “I’ve got a ten. Matt?”

            “Hm? Oh, sure. I’ll enable your addiction, Maggie.”

            That girl blushes like it was going out of style. “Oh no, really, I can just put some back.”

            “That is the most anti-Madge thing I have ever heard you say,” Matt declares, “and I don’t ever want to hear it again. Here.”

            “I can’t take your money-”

            “I’m going to blow it on beer if you don’t,” he threatens.

            Madge sucks her lips in, half hiding a smile. “I’ll pay you back.”

            Matt shrugs. “Whenever.”

            Vince clears his throat. _Smooth._

            I glare at him. _No._

            Vince and Madge lead the way up the street to the record store, crunching through old snow and patches of salt. I stare up at the fish scale sky, tasting a blizzard on the way.

“Madge doesn’t pretend does she?”

            I come back to Earth. “What do you mean?”

            “I mean, she just is what she is and isn’t fake about it.” Matt looks at me to make sure I understand. “She’s not trying to be anyone else, she’s just happy being herself.”

            That’s a revelatory observation on his part.

            “You guys should come to London again. She loved it last time.”

            Now he’s noticing someone else’s enjoyment of something. “Matt, when was the last time you had a steady girlfriend?”

            He gives me a funny look then tries to think about it. “I guess it was Kelly. We dated back in April.”

            “Matt,” Vince and Madge have stopped walking, “is this place the next block over? Maggie can’t remember.” Matt catches up to them, and Vince falls back. “How is he?”

            “Nerve-wracking. He’s never been single for this long.” I blow my hair out of my face. “I don’t know what to do with him if he’s not womanizing.”

            “He still parties though,” says Vince. “And, er, I’m pretty sure he has one-night stands.”

            I cringe. “That’s not something I needed to-”

            A preteen blasts past us, bumping Vince. His flip phone clatters across the pavement, but he keeps going. I retrieve it and run after him. “Hey, kid!”

            He turns sharply, and I slow my sprint.

            “Oh, wow, thanks,” he smiles gratefully as he takes the phone. “My aunt would’ve killed me.”

            His pullover is emblazoned with an image of Cap’s shield, his hair is neatly combed, one of his sneakers is untied, and it looks like he’s jimmied his broken glasses back together with jeweler’s wire. Ingenious, really, especially for a kid who needs glasses.

            “Nice sweater.”

            Immediately he becomes sheepish. “Oh, thanks. Early Christmas present.”

            Shouldn’t be out by yourself. “Be careful, okay?”

            He nods a few times, probably used to being chastened by that aunt. “Thanks again.”

 

            Once we’re home I let my face reform. Holiday season, everyone’s out on the streets window shopping like we were. Action figures of the Avengers were in a toy store display today- laughable all of them- and I was relieved not to see one of myself in there too. I’ve run into various other people I rescued during the event, but at least three of those times I was wearing a different face and went unnoticed.

            “Does it still hurt?”

            I stop massaging my face for a second. _Yeah._

            Vince gets an ice bottle from the mini-fridge Logan got me last Christmas. “Will this help?”

            I shake my head and press my face into his shoulder. The ice goes back, and he closes the door.

            “Is there a reason you don’t just use an illusion for everyone?”

            For convenience sake I used one for him and Matt and Madge today, keeping my real face for them. _It’s too much hassle. I’ve got to alter the perception of each and every mind in the vicinity- not to mention cameras- and that means also predicting who’s going to come around the corner in the next minute. I’m just not that good at it. How’re you doing? You said the telepathy was acting up._

            “Nah, just the ventriloquism. It happens when I study, I feel like my mind is on the other side of the room.”

            _Studying makes most people feel that way. You learned that while you were away, no?_

            Vince rubs his chin, freshly shaven from the beard he attempted to grow. “One of the brethren could do it on a mass scale and used it to keep Xavier off our backs. He taught me how to do it just for me.”

            Getting Vince to talk about his time with the Brotherhood happens so rarely that I hate to change the subject. However, I flinch at the sound of shouting in the house. _Scott and Logan are at it again._

            Vince covers my ears with his hands. _Does that help?_

            I try not to smile, leaning my head against his chest instead. _Yes, that helps._

            “Does the shape-shifting make it hurt to talk out loud?”

            I resort to hugging him. _You ask too many questions._

            He keeps his hands over my ears and kisses the top of my head. Back before the Brotherhood, when he was restless and troublesome, Vince could still calm me down like this. He’d just sit there quietly and let me think at him, always making me wonder if this was the real him and not the contentious kid with truckloads of angst.

            “What should I do, Vin? Should I be an X-Man, or an Avenger?”

            His fingers run through my hair, pushing it back from my face. “Why can’t you be both?”

            “Why can’t I be both?” I repeat. “I don’t know, can I?”

            “Do you _want_ to be both?”

            I grumble at this new complication and rub my eyes. “You want to be both.”

            “Alright,” he turns me toward the bed, “go to sleep, crazy.”      

            “You’re crazy.” I pull off my overshirt. “Get out of here.”

            There’s a crash in the mansion and more shouting. Vince stops at the door and looks back at me, but I shake my head.

            “They’ve been doing that all semester. Sometimes it even ends up outside.”

            A louder crash, I can hear Jean’s raised voice, and the _snikt_ of Logan’s claws.

            “They do that around the students?” Vince asks.

            I sit on the edge of the bed and peel off my socks. “Most of them seem to just accept it now. It happened once or twice over the summer too so I hear.”

            Vince puts his hands in his pockets and stares at the window, looking conflicted.

            “You’re welcome to snuggle with one of the horses, but it’s going to be warmer inside,” I joke.

            He glances at me, then back at the window. “How long do they usually last?”

            I shrug. “It’ll clear up in another minute. Jean and Storm usually separate them, or the Professor _makes_ Logan chill out. Logan hates that, but he does get nasty sometimes.”

            “And you’re okay with all of it?” Vince asks uncertainly.

            “I’m out here, aren’t I?”

            He rubs his chin again, still obviously nervous about going inside.

            “Vin, it’s okay. They’re calming down right now, I promise. Storm’s giving Logan the cuss-out of the century. It’s beautifully eloquent, you should hear it.”

            That merits a small smile. “Goodnight, A.”

            I listen as he shuffles his way back through the snow, letting his mind wander farther away until I can’t hear it anymore. Piotr and Hank are cleaning up whatever the guys broke, and Storm continues berating Logan down the hall and into the garage as he makes his way to the nearest bar.


	52. Chapter 52

            Jean and Scott argued up and down the path outside the barn last night, so I jumped to Stark Tower and slept there. JARVIS woke me in the morning by lightening the tinted windows, and from where I lay I could see snow clouds trapped in the gilt panes of the Chrysler.

            Vince traces the lines of the Chrysler on the window. “What are you going to do this winter break? Besides dodge federal agents.”

            I roll onto my back, and rest my temple against his knee. _What I’m doing right now._

            He gives a tired little smile.

            “Vin? Did you want me back in July, or after you broke up?”

            His lips purse and part as he formulates a response. “I never stopped wanting you. I thought that going to school in California would help me stop thinking about you, but you called all the time. I wanted you to be mad at me so I could move on.”

            “So why didn’t you just ask me out after you broke up with Kirsten?”

            Here he hesitates. “You do realize how many times you’ve rejected me? I didn’t want to walk up to you and go, ‘Hey, I’m free now,’ like a putz.”

            I watch his face. “Was that the only reason?”

            There’s a stray lash on his cheek. “I didn’t want you to think you were a rebound.”

            “Boo.”

            “I didn’t.”

            I wipe the lash off his cheek with my thumb, and when he looks down at me it feels just like it used to.

            _Ever since this,_ he sweeps his hand over the view of Manhattan, _you’ve changed. You seem…not happy, but…sure. You’re more sure of yourself. When you took me to meet Tony, I watched you bargaining with him and I swear I felt you could take over the world if you tried. I didn’t want to get in the way of that._

            “I think I noticed you doing better after you started seeing that agent. Cool- Coul- Phil.”

            I smile because he always remembers his first name. “Manhattan was easy- there are the bad guys, there are the bystanders, get to work. I hadn’t felt like I’d done an honest day’s work in ages. It was terrible, but Manhattan had to happen for me. I feel like now I know what I’m here for, I felt useful.”

            Vince has been watching me closely during this, his focus moving back and forth between my eyes and my lips. If he were anyone else I’d think he wasn’t listening.

            I sit up, put my hand on his arm, and kiss the side of his face. He waits patiently, not with held breath and a pounding heart. I pause because I want to relax in his presence and remind myself we weren’t always like this. One finger ghosts down my bare arm before his whole hand rests on top of mine.

            “Pardon me, Ace.”

            Vince jolts. “Who the hell-?”

            I glare in the direction of the sound box _. “JARVIS.”_

            “There will be a work crew arriving on this floor at nine to install some new security hardware. Seeing as it’s nearly eight forty you might consider-”

            I get up, pulling Vince with me. “Freaking Tony.”

            We jump back to Vince’s bedroom where I unceremoniously woke him this morning and dragged him to the Tower.

            “So,” he pauses in brushing his teeth, “JARVIS runs all of his buildings?”

            “The two I’ve been to, yeah.”

            “And he just watches you and hears you? That’s kinda creepy.”

            “It is a little,” I comb my hair with my fingers, “but he can keep a secret.”

            Vince turns off the sink and walks back into the room. “What kind of secrets?”

            “Well, you for starters. If he blabs to Tony that I have a boyfriend I will be sorely disappointed in him.”

            Vince flops on the bed beside where I’m sitting. “Why can’t Tony know you have a boyfriend? Will he ground you?”

            I smack him in the belly, making him giggle and curl up. “ _No_ _._ He’ll never let me hear the end of it. He’ll make jokes every time I see him.”

            “Jokes, like what?” Vince asks, waiting to see if I smack him again.

            “Just rude jokes like, ‘When’s the wedding?’, ‘Who wears the pants?’ ”

            Vince is laughing at just about anything I say right now. “I think we both know who wears the pants.”

            “Shut up, you wear them sometimes too.”

            During breakfast there’s some fallout in the staff dining room from last night’s argument between the Summers, so we finish quickly and hide out in my room. I take up my usual spot on the bed as Vince sprawls on the gaudy rug Kitty brought home from college.

            “I don’t know when they got so vocal,” I say. “They used to keep their arguments telepathic.”

            Vince runs a hand over his cheek, wondering if he should shave. I pretend not to hear most of what he’s thinking, treating it like background noise. I slide onto the floor and lie opposite him, with my head beside his and my feet propped against the desk leg.

            “Was that woman from SHIELD?”

            He means Romanoff. “Yes. The archer is her partner. He just asked her to check up on me I guess.”

            “Check up, like SHIELD’s watching you?”

            “No,” I say doubtfully. “If SHIELD were watching me he probably wouldn’t have sent his best friend.”

            Vince rubs his lips together. “Does he like you?”

            I recall how Clint laughed when I insulted him. “Don’t know. He definitely acted like we were friends, but it didn’t feel like flirting.”

            Vince hums in acknowledgment then quickly kisses me on the cheek. "Hey.”

            I tilt my head slightly, and smile out of the corner of my eye. "What?"

            "Are you still worried about the immortality thing?”

            I turn onto my side. "I'm not immortal. Death is just more difficult for me than it is for you."

            “But are you still worried about me dying and leaving you behind?”

            “Vince, everyone worries about that kind of thing.”

            He props himself up on his elbow and pushes my hair back from my face. I close my eyes, letting him comb his fingers over the back of my head, and up the back of my neck. He doesn't know that violence to these areas has nearly killed me before, that his index finger is tracing what was once the seam of a scar running across my scalp, a scar I only remembered when the butt of a Chitauri gun split the skin there. He doesn't know it’s better not to know.

            For most of the break, Vince and I stay bundled up at home- though Matt occasionally drags us into the snowy city- and I become less willing to let him go as his departure date draws near.

            The wind groans and howls around the corners of the barn, the rafters sometimes shuddering, and a creaky paddock gate whining. Vince is lying with his head and feet at the wrong ends of the bed. I press my finger to the tip of his nose, and for several seconds he doesn’t stop me. Finally, he scrunches his nose.

            Chuckling, I lay my head on his stomach. “What am I going to do with you, Detmer?”

            Eyes closed, he smiles quietly. "What am I going to do with _you?"_

            move my head to his chest. “Stay here tonight.”

            “In here?”

            I sit up and take off my overshirt.

            “Let me go change and I’ll be back, yeah?” He climbs off the bed and stuffs his feet into his galoshes before heading out into the weather.

            I brush my teeth, get another blanket down from the shelf, and try to shake this giddy feeling. I’m brushing my hair when I trip over his shoes. I pick them up to put them by the door, and notice they’re the Converse with the burnt heels.

            Vince returns amidst much exaggerated shivering and stomping of feet. “Nearly froze my friggin toes off.”

            I’ve already gotten into bed, so he changes into a dry pair of socks and climbs in with me, still shivering. “How do you sleep out here by yourself in the winter?”

            I look at the shoes by the door. “When will you tell me about the Brotherhood?”

            He swallows and looks where I’m looking. “What do you want to know?”

            I take his cold hands in mine. “What was it like?”

            He pulls his hands away. “It was a billion years ago, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

            “Some things matter. You learned the ventriloquism there. Did anything else happen?"

            He scoffs. "It was an honest to God nasty experience, I regret it entirely."

            The building shivers and one of the mares adjusts her footing in the straw.

            "Ace," his voice is softer and slightly apologetic, "just thinking about it makes me see red. I don’t want to feel like that right now."

            He takes my hands again and brushes the bridge of my nose with his lips. When he kisses my forehead a kind of serenity settles over us. I make Vince calm too.

            "What made you like me to begin with?" I ask. "What about that dour, badly dressed girl made you think, 'that one'?"

            “I think it was when you climbed out that window.”

            “What window?”

            “That first time we went on the roof. You just opened it and climbed out, it was incredible.”

            I yawn and snuggle deeper down into the covers. “Man, I’ve climbed out of higher windows let me tell you.”

            Vince snuggles down with me. “You weren’t afraid at all. That’s why I climbed out there after you.”

            “Fool.”

            I get another kiss for name-calling, then kisses on the knuckles of both my hands. Sleet slaps the window as the building shudders.

            “I had a girlfriend.”

            Damp wood and icy mud try to wedge their way into my senses and overwhelm the comfort of this room.

            “I didn’t break it off before I left. I still feel bad about that.”

            I try to focus on just our space in the bed and ignore the chaos outside.

            “She didn’t have a bad heart, she was just a bad idea.”

            “Wait…you had a girlfriend before Kirsten?” I open my eyes. “And she was brethren?”

            “Yes. Is that…a problem?”

            A tree branch clatters down the roof.

            “Should I have told you sooner?”

            I close my eyes again and open my mouth to say something mild and reassuring. He should’ve told me. It’s been eighteen months and so far I’ve had to hear through Xavier and even Coulson about what happened the night he ran away. “You left her with them?”

            For a moment he doesn’t say anything. “I kind of left in a hurry, A.”

            I know it’s unfair when I say it. “Why? Did something happen?”

            That does it. Vince lets go of my hands, but not before I’m standing in that alley again with a bleary floodlight over my shoulder and my foot in a day-old rain puddle.

            “Ace, stop.”

            I hold onto that memory, not mine, his. He’s breathing hard, running, imagining the footfalls behind him are closer than they really are.

            “Ace, _please_ stop. Let it go- I’ll tell you later just let it go.”

            I let out a long breath. “Matt invited me to this big party-”

            “No, wait- Who told you?”

            Does someone beside Xavier know?

            “Did you _see_ me?”

            “Vince, it was a really confusing, stressful night, so please just tell me what happened.”

            “You were there you tell me what happened.”

            “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

            “Great, that’s freakin’ fantastic, Ace.”

            “Fine, I saw four men beat the crap out of John before they shot him in the head. He bled out in my lap and then I followed them. Your turn.”

            Vince doesn’t say anything, his throat tightening and pulse quickening. He climbs out of bed and stands in the middle of the dark room, looking around, afraid to bump into anything. “Did Xavier tell you why I was there?”

            “Actually Coulson did.” I sit up and tuck my feet underneath me. “He said there was a SHIELD agent on the premises in case anything happened to Matt.”

            “SHIELD was there too? Shit.” Vince shuffles his feet, rubbing a hand over his face. “And he knew I was there?”

            “No, Vince, you were not the radiating spotlight of that night. People died, one of them your brethren buddy.”

            “He was not- Fuck it.” He swears a few more times in his head. “Look, whatever Coulson told you, you know I would never try to hurt Matt.”

            “Then what were you trying to do? Explain.”

            With both hands over his face, Vince takes a shuddering breath. “Last winter- no, the winter before that- I made the mistake of mentioning to whoever I was with that I had visited Matthew Larson’s apartment in New York. At the time, Matt’s dad was pushing that mutant tax law and everyone was pissed about it. Magneto gave a tirade every other day about Robert Larson. He knew I knew Matt.

            “At first they were just going to scare him, leave threatening messages, that kind of thing and maybe scare his dad into ending his campaign. I told them that wouldn’t fly, his dad hated him and vice versa. So they tried kidnapping him.

            “We- not me- broke into Matt’s apartment, but the place was empty so John beat the crap out of me. Then they had me call Matt to find out where he really was, but his number didn’t work anymore either- I got punched again. Finally they had some girl meet him at a bar or something and get his new number. I called, Matt told me he was living in the dorms, I hung up.”

            There’s a sour taste on my tongue as I keep my eyes squeezed shut and my teeth clenched. My stomach turns as I go through a mental calendar of that spring. Matt had just broken up with a girl when Vince called.

            “Ace, I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to find the right time to tell you-”

            “Get to Brown.”

            He takes another distressed breath and swallows. “Pyro wanted to go just the two of us, and I went because I wanted to keep him from roughing up Matt. When we got to the trees, I heard the humans and froze. John didn’t, and I was going to warn him, but I knew he’d kill them- I didn’t know yet that they were from the Church. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to save Matt.” He grinds his teeth and stops breathing for a second. “John had killed people in front of me before, and I was scared out of my skin it would happen again.

            “I was already running back to the car when the gun went off. John didn’t have a gun, but I never thought he’d been shot. I just knew he’d come for me next. I got back to the car and got the hell out of there. Got lost six times and finally had to hitchhike into New York because the car was out of gas and I didn’t have any cash. Being the massive idiot I am, I hid out at my jackass cousin’s ex-girlfriend’s place for two days before she called the cops on me. I kept running until some incredibly trusting stranger let me borrow their cell, and I called Matt.”

            Now he kneels on the floor and clasps his hands together. “Ace, I swear I’ve been trying to say this to you. I had no idea you were there, I couldn’t-”

            “You ran away.”

            He bows his head, probably about to cry.

            “You ran away and left John and Matt to get killed.”

            “I have no idea what happened, Ace.” Definitely crying. “I heard the humans got killed, but I just- I panicked. I fucked up. I fucked up.”

            I look away, letting the sounds of the storm blur out his self-pity. I run my tongue over my teeth. “When John was dying, I went into his head and felt sorry for him. That made me angry. So I killed them.”

            Vince shuts up and sits quietly for a moment. “You what? You felt sorry for him?”

            “You didn’t see the dark, lonely place he was going to-”

            “That’s exactly where he deserves to be.” The tears have dried up apparently. “Ace, the man was a psychopath.”

            “Vince, the man died alone. As disgusting a person as I’m sure he was, I have never observed death that…intimately before.”

            “No one, Ace, no one who knew him would disagree with me.” He sits up straighter. “Pyro did not deserve your pity or your revenge.”

            “How is it that my pity for John overshadows that fact that I murdered five people? You don’t see anything wrong in that, but-”

            “Oh I’m sorry, I don’t see you turning yourself in to the police for quintuple homicide. Please, elaborate more on what a coward I am-”

            I jump to my feet. _“Get out.”_

            “I didn’t know _avoiding_ murder was a less dignifying crime than actually _committing_ murder,” he fumbles with his galoshes in the dark, “but what do I know I’m just a stupid kid with three brain cells compared to your _genius_.”

            _“GET THE F-”_

            The door slams behind him. I open it again, grab his godforsaken sneakers, and throw them into the aisle.

           

            Matt was more than willing to drive Vince and his crap to the airport. I wait until I’m sure they’re gone, and head into the mansion for a cup of coffee. Before I make it to the staff lounge, I’m surprised by Storm holding out the guest phone.

            “It’s for you.”   

            No one calls me with the school’s number. “They give a name?”

            Storm presses her palm over the mouthpiece. “Clint, it sounded like.”

            I nod casually and take the phone. “Seriously, dude?”

            “Hey- This is the Ace who’s friends with Tony, right? Listen, I’m sorry if sending Nat out there upset you. I thought I’d let you enjoy the holidays before I bugged you again.”

            I look around. “No, it’s fine. I don’t need any help, really.”

            “Right, yeah I know, but…there was something else. Nat didn’t bring it up because I asked her not to, but…Do you know a woman named Julia Buell?”

            “No. Should I?"

            “Well, she might know you. You said Coulson helped you find your biological parents?”

            I bite down on my tongue as the name slowly becomes familiar again. “What’s happening, Clint?”

            There’s a hesitation. “She says you’re her daughter. She’s trying to find you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER USED TO BE SO LONG. I AM REALLY SUPER PLEASED WITH MYSELF FOR CUTTING THE LIFE OUT OF IT. I HOPE YOU LIKED IT BECAUSE IT'S WAAY BETTER NOW OKAY.


	53. Chapter 53

            I sit down on the floor, the phone cord stretching taut.

            “You there?”

            “What does she know?”

            “Nothing, but whenever Coulson pulled those files for you she caught wind.”

            The mansion seems to collapse on itself, crushing in on me from all sides. I squeeze in next to a planter, trying to hide behind it.

            “Ace? You still there?”

            “Did- Did you tell her where I am?”

            “No one’s told her. I haven’t actually talked to her myself, she contacted another agent-”

            “What happens if no one tells her? Does somebody have to tell her, is that a law?”

            “No, SHIELD’s not obligated to tell her anything. But she must work for the federal government or something because she’s pulling all the right strings-”

            Jean hangs up the phone. “Come on, get up.”

            She removes me to her office right around the corner and sits me in the chair behind her desk. I curl up into myself, trying to become the smallest version of me possible.

            “You’re going to be okay.” There’s a hand on my back. “Logan’s on his way, it’s going to be alright. Breathe.”

            I don’t want to breathe. I want to forget how. I want my lungs to shrivel up and give out, and for everything to go away.

            “It’ll be alright soon,” Jean continues, “just remember to breathe…”

 

            There’s room again. I’m still curled up in a ball only now I’m not in the chair, but in the crook of Logan’s arm. The dark paneled wall of the office is to one side of me, his body on the other, and Jean and the chair are behind me.

            “Do you know who the call was from?” Logan asks in a low voice.

            Jean shakes her head. “Scott’s got Matthew on the line to see if it was one of their friends.”

            Logan’s jaw clenches against my skull. “Her _friends_ would call her on her cell.”

            I sit still in the peace, trying to remember what was so upsetting about that call. Julia Buell seems less terrifying now that I’m with these two.    

            “You alright?” Logan asks into my hair. He loosens his arm and gets me to sit up on my own. “Who called?”

            “Don’t worry about that, Ace,” Jean cuts in. “Just as long as you’re feeling better.”

            Logan gives her a look in a way that tells me she gave him one first. I curl up again, just wanting to go to sleep now, but Logan takes me by the arm and stands me up.

            “Walk with me.”

           

            Using Danger in this instance feels a bit excessive, but here we are. The scenery accurately mimics the area of Bella Coola I stayed in with Bruce. I can even hear and smell a river somewhere downhill.

            “Was this Xavier’s idea?” I ask.

            Whose ever it was, Logan’s into it, head tilted back, eyelids heavy. “Better than havin’ you run off by yourself.”

            A beetle wanders clumsily over the moss on this log, and I lower my face so I can watch him.

            “Who screwed up first?” he asks.

            I don’t want to answer. I want to be a beetle.

            “Was it me?” he persists. “Bad call putting you and Vince together?”

            “You didn’t put anyone together this has nothing to do with him.” I sit up and press my hands to my skull. “My biological mother is looking for me.”

            At first he’s quiet, but that just means he’s revving up. The following incendiary curses are a little more graphic than I’m used to hearing from him, but expected nonetheless.

            “…and if she thinks she has the fucking right to push her goddamned ass back into your life-”         

            “Logan, geez, she’s not the one who called. It was a SHIELD guy I know who just wanted to give me a heads-up.”            

            “Some courtesy call, he nearly gave you a heart attack.” Logan gets up and dusts off his jeans. “But does she know how to find you?”

            I shrug. “She’s been bugging SHIELD for a year, that’s how I found her.”

            “They’re not going to tell her how to find you.”

            “No, at least, he said they don’t have to.”

            "Well, whatever. She comes anywhere near here we're getting on the bike and high-tailing it."

            I run my hand through my hair, looking around for the beetle again. 

            "Is this something you need my help on?" Logan asks in a less offended tone of voice. "SHIELD's more your territory and so's your mom. You want to run away?" He waves his hand at the forest around us. "We can go to the real place. But that's something I'd say if you were a kid. You're a force to be reckoned with, darlin'."

            Not feeling so forceful right now.

 

            I redial the number Clint called from and wait. It's most likely a monitored line. There's probably a monotone SHIELD operator just waiting to make my life hard-

“Barton speaking."

            "Hi, Clint." I say in an uneasy, drawn out voice, closing my eyes. “Sorry our last call got cut off.”

            There’s a huff on the other end. “Wasn’t really news you wanted to hear, I guess.”

            “Look, I don’t know what information Coulson left behind, but…he knew why I don’t want to meet that woman.”

            “He didn’t leave much of anything, to tell you the truth. Maybe there’s a file on you somewhere that I don’t have clearance for," I hear a screen door shut, "but we’re in the black over here, and this Buell woman is persistent.”

            “You’re SHIELD. Can’t you just tell her to go away?”

            “You’d think so, huh?”

            “How did you know she was asking about me and not some other kid?"

            “There’s a photo she’s been passing around. She didn’t know who’d pulled the missing person’s file, but our paper trail said it was Coulson. An Agent Ruiz said he’d shared some information with you around the same time. She recognized your photo, passed it on to Natasha, Natasha called me.”

            “Why Natasha?”

            “She was nearby.”

            Swallowing my rising anxiety, I tell it to shut up and stay put. “Why is she looking for me?”

            Barton hesitates. “You went missing when you were little-”

            “I didn’t go missing.”

            “Then what happened, Ace?” He takes on that low, warm voice he had on Stark's balcony. “Why did Coulson know you don’t want to meet this woman?”

            Again, swallow. “They abandoned me because I was a mutant.”

            “How do you know they abandoned you?”

            “Because Alkali had it on file that they found me by myself in the middle of nowhere.”

            “Do you trust Alkali’s files?”

            Hesitation. “A police report was filed by a civilian saying they’d seen me by myself. The military might have redacted it. She abandoned me, so why is she trying to find me now?”

            “Maybe she doesn’t want you telling people she abandoned you, and wants to see what you remember. Maybe she’s still playing off her original story and is only trying to find you for appearance sake. Maybe your father coerced her into abandoning you, or maybe _he_ abandoned you and she knew nothing about it; a lot of things could’ve happened. Is your father still alive?”

            “Coulson said he was, but he’s not rushing to find me.”

            “Maybe he doesn’t have the political pull your mother seems to.”

            “Clint, these people aren’t my parents, please don’t call them my mother and father.”

            “Ace,” he sighs tiredly and I hear yelling in the background, “Buell first contacted SHIELD back in _April_. Had she only been looking to cover her ass, she wouldn’t still be asking. I don’t know about the rest of society, but if I’d done something that criminal I wouldn’t spend a year bugging a national intelligence agency about it. You get what I’m saying?”

            I wipe my eyes again, resorting to crying apparently instead of hyperventilating. “You think she’s genuine.”

            “I think she wants her daughter back.”

           

            “She waived that right when she dumped you.” Logan takes a long swallow of whiskey, the string of profanities preceding that statement having temporarily come to an end.

            "What if she didn't dump me?" I set down a text book and crack my knuckles. "What if one of Clint's scenarios was true and she's just a frantic parent looking for her long-lost kid?"

            Logan gives me a square look. "How old would you be now? Thirty-seven?"

            "Thirty-four." I lie back in the pine needles and groan. "She'll freak out."

            "I think finding out you're alive will do that. Does she even know that yet? A pulled file doesn't mean a person's alive."

            “So I can have SHIELD lie and tell her it’s not her daughter they’re researching. They can say it’s some other unidentified girl and that they pulled a lot of files from a lot of places. It’s an old bureaucratic trick and it will get her off my scent, but in the end she thought she might have a lead in finding her child.”

            The cigar ash is tapped onto a rock, a real one as we aren’t in Danger this time but out in the woods. “What exactly are you imagining of this woman?”

            I roll my eyes. “I don’t actually have proof that she dumped me. It’s highly suspect, but her behavior suggests otherwise. What if this woman has been desperate to find me, but hasn’t had any leads in decades? If you’d known I was alive out there long after Alkali, wouldn’t you have tried to track me down?”

            Logan crooks an eyebrow and observes the burning end of the Cohiba. “I wasn’t the same person then, darlin’. I would’ve assumed your life had turned out better than mine and left you alone. But I see your point.”

            He stretches one arm out, and I curl up next to him. As he takes a deep drag of the cigar, and I wonder what life would be like if it had been just the two of us after Alkali. It would’ve been no fun for him, I was nearing preadolescence and the PTSD would surely have set in sooner. He always struggled for money, and the winters were rough to raise a kid in. But for me there would’ve been these warm arms to run to when things got scary, and countless moments like this one where I didn’t doubt I mattered to someone.

            I press my face into his jacket, the smell of old leather equating safety and love. I want to stay here forever, just like this with both of us calm and collected in the middle of a quiet nowhere. Sometimes when he takes a deep breath I can hear the movement of his grafted skeleton adjusting over his ribcage, and while the sound bothers me, it’s his. No one else is unbreakable like my Logan.

            Letting out a long sigh, he gives my shoulder a squeeze. “C’mon, get your book. Sun’s going down.”   

 

            Surprise attacks aren’t very surprising when you always hear them coming, but occasionally you just have to pretend. I give a startled yelp when Madge hugs me around the middle.

            “I missed you,” she says, beaming. “There was this character on TV that was just like you and I just missed you all winter.”

            I hug her back. “It’s been dark and dreary without you too.”

            She laughs and pokes me in the side. “Are you still tutoring French this semester? I needed an elective so I just grabbed it without thinking.”

            As she talks I slide her massive duffel off her shoulder and onto mine. “This is filled with books isn’t it?”

            “ _No_.” She rolls her shoulder and pokes me in the arm. “Did you get muscle-y’er over break?”

            “You make it sound like I’m a bodybuilder or something, Mags.”

            “Excuse me, I’m like the Pillsbury Doughboy here standing next to your Olympic medalist physique.” She adjusts her smaller shoulder bag and follows me to the stairs. “I finally got a smartphone for Christmas and thus immediately downloaded every audiobook in the universe- Well, my brother downloaded every audiobook in the universe; I don’t really know how to use it yet. Anyway, moral of the story, I can listen to books on the treadmill now.”

            I put my foot on the bottom step of the stairs and shift the duffel onto my other shoulder. “Yes, but why listen to somebody read a book badly when you can hold one in your hands?”

            Madge bites her lip. “I don’t know, and you’re terrible.”

            Her roommate and another girl waiting when we arrive, and I unload the duffel amidst much screaming and hugging.         

            “Ohmygod, Mags, did you get in?” asks her very excitable roommate.

            Madge sucks in her lip and pulls an envelope out of her bag. “It’s just the waitlist-”

            More screaming and hugging, and I stick my finger in one ear just to give myself a break. Her roommate tacks up the letter on their shared bulletin board as Madge sets her other bag on her bed. “So, where’s Vince?”

            “He left for school early.” Lying to Madge seems to hurt more than lying to others. “C’mon, let’s go get something to eat.”

            I sneak her into the staff dining room and we share a frozen pizza that is completely and 100% mine. “But you wouldn’t know that by the number of them that have mysteriously vanished.”

            Madge grins around a slice and mumbles something unintelligible.

            “Sweetie, you’re adorable, but I can’t understand pizza-mouth.”

            She pauses to wipe her lips on a paper napkin. “I said, you have a Russian pizza bandit.”

            “You knew who it was right away,” I laugh. “He replaced them though, so I can’t blame him.”

            Madge gnaws a piece of crust. “So, what’s going on?”

            “Vince and I had a fight. It sucked.”

            “When did you fight? Have you called him?”

            “No. We usually get over our fights pretty fast, but…this one was bad.”

            Madge leans on the table, playing with an earring. “But how long has it been since you talked? I mean, are you still fighting or did he just leave for California and-”

            “Yeah, he pretty much left.” I pick up the last slice and look at her, but she shakes her head. “There’s been some other upsetting stuff lately, but overall we had a nice break. Matt even stopped by before New Year’s.”

            Madge smiles briefly at the mention of Matt, but then frowns again. “Whenever my parents fight, my dad calls home from work the next day and they make up over the phone. I’m mad at them when they fight because I know they love each other, and they know they love each other, so I never understand why they’d get so mad at each other in the first place.”

            “Vince and I aren’t your parents.” I collect the crusts and napkins, and get up from the table. “They never have and never will need to fight over what Vincent and I did. If they had you probably wouldn’t have happened.”

            Madge wipes her hands on a napkin. “Are you saying you think you’ll break up?”

            I stop to absorb that. “I don’t know. You haven’t known us very long, but this isn’t the first time we’ve ‘broken up’ so to speak. Based on that record, I don’t think dating should have been an option in the first place.”

            Madge turns in her seat. “When I first met you, I thought you two were already dating. It wasn’t until Vince was in California that someone corrected me.”

            He only went to California to get away from me. “What’s your point?”

            “You guys have one of the best relationships I know. I’d hate for you to lose that over one argument.”

            I refrain from reacting badly to her naïveté. “It wasn’t the argument, Madge. Vince and I, we aren’t okay people. Life hasn’t treated us well so we’re not really up to code. Do you get that?”

            She wets her lips. “I guess I’ve just never thought of it. You two never mention your families, like Jenny. She grew up here almost, right?”

            I drop the paper plates into the trash all at once. “Vince and I didn’t grow up here. This place was basically a last resort for both of us. It’s not really the best thing to have in common.”

            Jean opens the door. “Ace- Hey, Maggie- your contact is on the phone again.”

            Clint takes a deep breath. “Okay, so. She knows you’re alive, and this is not her first rodeo with SHIELD.”

            “You’re only figuring this out now? She’s been pestering you since last April.” I check myself. "I'm sorry, this has been stressing me out all week. So she knows. Now what?"

            Clint sighs. "She wants to meet you. Now, it’s not SHIELD policy to get involved in that sort of thing, and we won’t release your information to her as you are still considered to be a protected asset. However, I can arrange for you to meet in a SHIELD location with an agent present. It’s a safe way of doing things so she can’t bother you afterward if you don’t want to stay in contact. Does that sound doable?”

            I press my forehead to the wall. “Barton, if I could hug you through the phone I would. Though meeting her will probably go badly.”

            “Probably.”

            “But you went and came up with all those different scenarios, and now I’m just worried about her not knowing what happened to me. If it isn’t too much trouble and it gets her out of your hair, yeah, we can do that, I’ll meet her. But she absolutely cannot know how to contact me afterward. If you’re wrong and she did abandon me, then- A lot of crap has happened that- Christ- I’m still recovering from.” I’m fighting back tears and hatred at the same time. “Please, make sure whoever’s there understands that if I cannot pass one more second in that woman’s presence, I’m going to need bail out immediately.”

            I put the phone down for a second just to remind myself to breathe. The lump in my throat doesn’t go away easy, but I hear Clint speaking again. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

            “I said I’ll make sure you’ve got the help you need. Ms. Buell will not be allowed to contact you without SHIELD’s express permission, and even then only under your terms.”

             Things settle down. “Thank you.”

            “Don’t mention it. Now go get some rest. I’ll call you when I have more intel.”

 

            After experiencing the washing machine for the first time, Vince’s Converse are drying out on top of my dresser. With a razor I shaved away the edges of the burnt rubber just to give them a smoother look, and tidied up the aglets on his laces with Scotch tape.

            I’ve been staring at his number on my phone trying to think of what to say. He’ll just ignore my call. I put the phone down again and rub the stiffness out of my eyelids. The things he said made perfect sense, but they were the last things I wanted to hear. The phone rings and I don’t know whether or not to be surprised by his face on the screen.

            “Hey. How are you?”

            “I was just about to call.”

            “Yeah?” He sounds hopeful. “Look, I’m- I completely understand if you want to break it off. I’ve done nothing but lie and make your life hard since we met, and I got selfish in thinking-”

            “Vinny, shut up. I made you feel like crap, and I’m sorry. I was just- God, I’m sorry.”

            “No, no, A. I…I should feel like crap. That’s not on you.”

            “It just caught me off guard, I never thought you’d- But backing out was the better evil, and…I’m really glad you did. You still there?”

            “Yeah, I’m still…I need to see you.”

            “Wait, what do you think about what I told you?”

            “Oh geez, I know you remember? All I did was spit near you one time, and you ground my face into the concrete.”

            “No, this wasn’t like that. This was like watching this monster take over my body and start moving around in it, except I knew perfectly well what I was doing and did it perfectly. I’ve never been truly afraid of anything in my life, but this…God, what if it happens again?”

            He sighs and for a long minute we simply exist on either end of the line.

            “Ace, nobody can fix what happened. But you’re one of those people who doesn’t make the same mistake twice. Me, I do the same stupid shit all the time. Like yelling at you, you’d think I learn by now not to do that.”

            I really want the things he’s saying to be right. “I did it once during the battle. I could’ve just escaped, but that dark part of my brain took over again. I killed without any thought and it was…brutal.”  

            Vince pauses. “It sounds like you feel the need to keep that dark part of you. It’s a defense mechanism. I don’t want to tell you it’s okay to kill people, but those creeps at Brown had been making a lot of innocent people’s lives hell up to that point. They can’t hurt anyone now.”

            My heart’s aching in two different places for two different things. “I need you. Can you come?”

            “Yep,” papers shuffle frantically on the other end, “right now?”

            “Sure, yes, _now_. I’ll be there in a minute.”

 

            I don’t remember what happened in the last five minutes. Some parts I can only remember a soft touch or a kiss, maybe a few of the things one of us said at one time, but it’s all disjointed.

            “We need to stop doing this to each other,” I say into his ear.

            He rubs my back and raises his head off the pillow to kiss my shoulder. “Breaking up and storming off, or smooching?”

            I tuck my hand under his ribs and adjust my posture so I’m not so heavily on top of him. “You were reliving a nightmare and I just topped off the guilt.”

            He swallows. “You weren’t wrong though. God, I hate that you were there.”

            I hate that I was there. I kiss his subtle five-o’clock shadow once or twice before moving myself off him and curling up. “So…do we tell each other everything now? How does this work?”

            Vince lets out a long breath. “I swear that whole night is the worst secret I have.”

            There’s a mixed relief that comes with that. “Clint called. He says my mom’s looking for me.”

            He tightens his hold. “How’d she find out you’re alive?”

            “She must’ve had an ear to the ground for anyone messing with my case. He says she’s been pestering SHIELD since Coulson got it for me last spring.”

            Vince sighs, his ribcage lifting and falling beneath my head. He pats my arm. “Come back up here.”

            I scoot up and he turns onto his side, taking me in both arms. “Are you going to meet her?”

            “She wants to meet me. Clint’s trying to find a way for that to happen.”

            “You really want to meet the woman who abandoned you?”

            “Abandonment doesn’t add up with the way she’s acting. Clint thinks she’s just been trying to find me. She did divorce her husband afterward, maybe she found out it was him who got rid of me.”

            He strokes my hair. “So, I’m confused, do you want to meet her?”

            “Not really. I would like to let her know that I’m alright now, but what if she wants to be my mom again and get to know me? What if she decides to ignore SHIELD and finds the school?”

            “She won’t find the school. Xavier wouldn’t let her, and Logan wouldn’t let her in.” He kisses the side of my face. “And if all else fails, we lock the stable door and hide out here until she goes away.”

            I don’t know how to express what I’m feeling right now. There’s nothing else to do but kiss him. We kiss until he’s on his back again and I’m not sure which way is up.

            _You need to come back to New York,_ I think when I can again form thought. _Go to school here, I’ll do anything you need._

            His arms squeeze tighter. _Give me till summer. I’ll figure it out._

            Then he holds the back of my head and kisses me better than I can kiss him. My hand got caught up under the hem of his shirt and I’m practically awash with his emotions. _Don’t forget. I need you here._

            He pauses to take a breath. _Don’t you forget either. Don’t get distracted by saving the world, and I won’t get distracted by school. I come back, you be here. Okay?_

            I slide my hand up and run my fingers over his ribs. _I’m not going anywhere._


	54. Chapter 54

            A breeze stirs the poplar outside my window. Poplars always sound like they’re congratulating someone, their leaves clapping a dim applause.

            I grip the edge of the desk until my knuckles turn white. _It’s okay. You’re going to be okay._

            Logan told me to see him before I leave. He’ll understand if I don’t. I want to see him, but I also want to dive in and get this over with. With a loud huff, I release the desk and head for the mansion.

            “I should come with you,” he says.

            I look over his shoulder into the classroom. “I couldn’t tear you away from…whatever it is you have them doing. Is that a katana?”

            “Clint didn’t say anything about who might be there to meet you?”

            “I’ll be fine.” I’d be better off stranded in the middle of the ocean without a lifejacket. “I know my way around SHIELD.”

            Logan grunts, and something crashes in the classroom. “Let me know how it goes.”

 

            This is very unlike what I expected. I’m standing in the lobby of a small citadel in Nevada, the SHIELD checkpoint Clint assigned me to go to. Gray concrete walls and black tile flooring provide a very unwelcoming atmosphere, as though the room itself were choosing to disregard me. Six cameras eye me from various points around the room, shut off the moment I blink. From there, I count out the seconds before the door at the far end of the room opens. The room becomes more comfortable.

            “They didn’t think you’d get through the front gate.” Clint’s smile reflects in every corner of his face.

            “What are you doing here?” I walk toward him as he walks toward me. “Don’t you have spy stuff to do?”

            He huffs. “Would you rather work with another agent?”

            “No.”

            “Then stifle the sass.”

            Through the door stretches a long, brightly lit hallway, less distant than the gray-toned lobby, but with the same soul swallowing black flooring. Agents cross back and forth through office doors, their vocal and mental noise criss-crossing with them. A tall, older agent walking toward us stops to speak with Clint in a low tone that I’m not supposed to hear. Clint nods and his hand presses to the small of my back, thumb putting pressure on my spine. We continue walking, but now I examine him out of the corner of my eye. _What now?_

Clint’s features are devoid of expression. “She knows you were in New York. She recognized you from those videos.”

            Now I know why his hand is at my back because there’s a hitch in my stride when my heart stops and emotional baggage tries to knock me down right here in a SHIELD hallway. But Clint pushes me forward and we keep going.

            He leads me into a waiting area outside the meeting room. Another agent is already here, and they nod at each other. Clint removes his hand.

            “Look, the room is being monitored, so keep your comments to a minimum. If you need someone to help with that, Agent Levine,” he makes eye contact with the man by the door, “can come in with you.”

            _Why is it being monitored?_ I ask.

            Clint blinks. He dislikes it when I do that. “That’s classified.”

            A gear clicks into place. The sudden urgency after a full year of denial, the personal visit from the Russian spy, and the unexpected phone calls now have a reason. “Were you talking up her innocence just to get me in here?”

            His offense feels genuine. “What? _No._ Some subcommittee is looking into all of Coulson’s most recent case files. Your stuff was among them, so now we’re being monitored and there’s nothing I can do to help that.”

            I close my eyes. “Everyone online is trying to figure out who’s in those videos. If she tells-”

            “Ace,” he takes me by both shoulders and turns me a little away from the other agent, “that woman has signed some extremely detailed nondisclosure agreements. If she even whispers in her sleep about who’s in those videos, SHIELD would have the right and the ability to launch her into outer space. Okay?”

            Outer space sounds drastic. I like it.

            “You’ve got one hour.”

           

            The woman in the next room keeps crossing and uncrossing her legs, smoothing out the fabric of her pantsuit each time. Dandruff shampoo, lipstick from a two-year-old stick, and some kind of musky foundation accentuate her presence. She keeps running her tongue around the inside of her mouth and swallowing often, thinking about the water cooler in this room. The club sandwich she had for lunch was insufficient because her stomach is grumbling, so she’ll eat the granola bar in her purse once this is over.

            Clint touches my arm, and with another deep breath I open the door.

            Short gray hair, average height, and a life-time spent watching her figure- although genetics left her with a wide waist anyhow. She stands up as I enter the room and utters a breathless, “Oh my god.”

            I stand still as she continues to stare for a few tedious seconds more, her eyes beginning to water.

            “You look like your dad.”

            If he pops out from behind that chair I’m busting out of here and never looking back.

            “Please, sit down, sit down.” She can’t seem to contain her excitement. The way her hands tremble shows more nerves than my own. 

            “How are you?” she asks once we’re both seated, crossing and uncrossing her legs again. “You’re so young too. Is that the…the mutation? I’m sorry, I don’t know how these things work.”

            What she means is she’s sorry for not knowing how to address it. “Yeah, that’s just something that happened.”

            She nods slowly, as though my vague response allows for any sort of comprehension. “How- how have you been? I saw you online, in New York. Do you live in New York, do you have friends there?”

            All of my muscles ache from tension. “What makes you sure I’m the person you’re looking for?”

            “Oh no, you’re her. You look a little different- Aracely had a mole above her left eyebrow- but you’re the same kind of lanky your dad was when we met. And you have my hair color- well, you can’t tell now, but…”

            We sit in an awkward silence for another eternity.

            “Well, I- Is there anything you want to ask me?” She folds her hands over her knee, smiling those lipstick lips, wrinkles around her mouth creasing.

            It’s possible for me to determine blood lines just by comparing the scents of two people. It would seem difficult to ascertain relatives of my own since one gets used to one’s own scent, but of my own I’ve always been well aware. Out in the waiting room, I determined with a bit of sinking finality that Julia Buell is, unfortunately, my mother. I’d been privately hoping, especially after Clint told me that SHIELD was monitoring this, that perhaps she was an impostor sent by the remnants of Alkali to capture me. That would’ve been a riot.

            “How did we get separated?”

            Her features go stiff for a fraction of a second before she presses her lips together and looks at her hands. “I suppose that is what you’d want to hear first. Have you read the police report?”

            I don’t reply. She doesn’t need any more information about me than she already has.

            My lack of response doesn’t seem to faze her. “We’d just gotten home from a long road trip, and so we went straight to bed. When we got up in the morning, you were gone. We told the police you might have had a nightmare, and since you tended to sleepwalk you might have wandered out the front door. There was a brief manhunt before they concluded you had to have been kidnapped. They never found you of course.”

            “Why?” I ask.

            She looks carefully at me, running her tongue over her teeth. “When I heard SHIELD had pulled your file, I panicked. It had been so long since anyone had mentioned you that I… They pretended not to know what I was talking about, but I know SHIELD. If you were alive, which that footage proved you were, I needed to see you. You weren’t kidnapped.”

            “I know. I didn’t sleepwalk either.”

            Her expression becomes grieved, and she shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Some friends were going on their honeymoon and wanted us to look after their cat. You were going through your animal phase, but we didn’t have the time or the money to get you your own pet, so a temporary cat was the best we could do. You drew pictures of it, and ran around the backyard with it, and climbed all over the furniture together. You were thrilled.

            “Then one day I was working in the den, and you gave a little shriek in your room. You came running out and showed me your hands. You’d grown claws. At first I thought you’d made them and taped them on, but they were growing out of your fingertips like a cat’s. You were expecting praise, but instead got a trip to the emergency room. By the time we saw a doctor your hands were normal again. You weren’t allowed to play with the cat anymore, and we gave it back as soon as we could. But things got worse.

            “You came in from playing in the yard and hid in the bathroom, but I was onto you. There were feathers- literal feathers- sprouting out up and down your arms. You looked like a plucked crow. Those went away too. Then there were incidents at school, scaring a teacher, biting some boy. I’d kept the situation hidden from your father up till that point, but he couldn't avoid knowing when I took you out of school. We curtained your windows and for a while we thought you’d get over it. You stopped smiling so I couldn’t see your teeth, and later I found all the scratch marks on the side of your dresser where you thought no one would see them.

            “Neighbors called the cops on us once because no one ever saw you leave the house, and your father did more than his fair share of yelling. We didn’t hit you- I stopped disciplining you altogether after you put that boy in the hospital. You looked and acted like a person most of the time.” She massages the arthritis in her hand. “You’d practice bird calls in the living room, you wouldn’t go near the bathroom because you said the smell of the cleaning products under the sink hurt your nose. Whenever I cooked you told me everything was too salty or too sour or too something. Rodrigo was going insane, and even though we’d started taking you out for drives so the neighbors could see you, our social lives were a disaster.

            “It was his offhanded idea once, after you’d gone to bed, that we drive you to a nature preserve and leave you there. Dark humor, but... We told everybody we were driving north to visit some friends. We packed up, drove around, found a nice area of complete wilderness, and let you out to stretch your legs. Then we just drove away.”      

            My toes are numb from being curled inside my shoes for so long, and the vinyl armrest makes a satisfying popping sound whenever I dig my claws in.

            “It was sick,” Julia continues, “we realized that too late. The police were searching your room; going through all your toys and clothes- everything was a memory of my girl. I’d lost her forever. I’d lost her before I even knew what was happening.”

            Julia’s eyes glisten as she stares blankly at the floor. I stop biting my tongue and let her thoughts swim through my brain long enough to know them, but not to remember them. She’d actually convinced herself that I’d do fine in the wild, that evolution would find a way for me. I clench my jaw so tightly I can feel it in my shoulders. She left me to starve.

            “People suspected us of course, but kids went missing every day- and you weren’t white. Some murder took us off the headlines and the whole thing went away.” She splays out her fingers to denote fleeing. “I knew if SHIELD was interested in your case after all these years it meant something drastic had happened. And then, of course, New York happened. Sometimes I wonder what it was like for you up till that minute when a hole opened in the sky and you were all alone.”

            I pluck my claws from the armrests. “I’ve found I’m good at being alone.”

            Julia finally looks at me. “I’ve always regretted what we did, Cely.”

            “That’s not my name.”

            She swallows. “What can I call you then?”

            “We’re strangers, Julia, you don’t have to call me anything. You don’t even have to look at me if you don’t want to. When I leave this room, you will mean as much to me as you did while I was growing up. Don’t worry about the normal daughter you think is still in me somewhere. You left her to die, and the little monster that came out of that wilderness was prey to some people even more horrible than yourself.” For once, I know I won’t regret a single thing I say. “I’m not your little girl. I’m every bit the monster you forced her to be.”

            Part of me expects her to go white with fear and break down in frightened, guilty tears. The other part of me knows I’m related to this woman who doggedly pestered SHIELD after disposing of a living child, so whatever violence I can inflict with words alone I must have inherited from somewhere.

            Julia’s skin does blanch, but her eyes grow livid. “You have no idea what I’ve been through. All the work we went to, the plans we had for you, all of it down the drain. We shouldn’t have done what we did, but after every sleepless night for the last thirty years I kill myself to find you again, and this is what I get? You were a perfect child and you became a monster on your own time. We didn’t hurt you, we didn’t punish you, we did everything we could to help you. You think we _wanted_ to abandon our only child? We could have killed you-”

            “You should have.” I think back on every attempt on my life, and my respect for those individuals rises. “Had you and your accomplice done the job correctly, you wouldn’t be sitting across from a weapon right now.”

            Julia’s jaw trembles, but her narrow gaze hardens. I lean forward in my seat and clasp my hands.

            “SHIELD doesn’t take in pity cases. They take what they think they can use.” I look back and forth between her eyes. “Slaughtering aliens is not the worst thing I’m capable of.”

            With a swallow, Julia glances at the ceiling. “You’re not as scary as you think you are.”          

            I lean back in my seat. “Did either of you have any other kids?”

            “No.”

            “Are you sure?”

            She gives me a steady look. “Neither of us wanted to risk it happening all over again.”

 

            I’ve had the room to myself for about a minute when Clint joins me.

            “I didn’t want to meet her.”

            He looks away from me to the other side of the room. “Come out into the hall.”

            I listened carefully when I came in and didn’t hear any bugs. Who’s to say the hall isn’t bugged too? He closes the door behind us, and I’m relieved not to see Julia still in the waiting room, though the smell of her foundation lingers.

            “We can get her put away-”    

            “No, don’t punish her,” I interrupt. “She’s old, she has no family, and she’s still mourning an imaginary loss only now she’ll live in fear that I might come back. Everyday life is punishment enough for her.”

            He presses his lips together in a firm line, and puts his hands on his waist, looking around to see if anyone overheard. “I’ll see what I can do. You’ve got to remember I don’t have the same kinda pull Coulson did.”

            I’d forgotten about him. This would all have been easier if Coulson did it, which means Clint worked his ass off to set this up. “Don’t worry about it. He’d be glad you did this much.”

            Clint’s shoulder’s rise and fall with a heavy sigh. “Yeah, probably.”

 

            A dappling of university students sit cross-legged against the windowed walls of the hallway, each with their focus on the glowing screen in their hand. The bluish-green carpet looks new, but smells two-years-old and unwashed. A young man at the end of the hall wears too much cheap cologne to mask the stench of marijuana, and a girl at the other end just applied a noxious lotion to her manicured hands. Looking beyond them out the window, I try to imagine I’m outside with only the salt air to barrage my senses.

            Vince exits the classroom fourth to last, talking to a tall, acne-scarred kid. I step forward territorially before stopping myself. He has a whole life here that I don’t know about, and I asked him to drop it and move home with me.

            His brow furrows when he sees me, and waves to his friend before crossing the hall. “Hey sweetie, what’s wrong? How’d it-”

            “Can we go to your dorm? Do you have another class, can we go to your dorm?”                                

            “Yeah, no, we can go.” Vince takes me by the arm and starts walking me down the hall. He keeps one arm around me as we traverse the campus grounds to his car. Even in the car he holds my hand as he listens, sometimes biting his lip or keeping his mouth a firm line. It isn’t until we’re in the dorm and he’s locked the door that I realize I’ve recounted a whole event beginning to end without omitting a single detail.

            “Clint’s a good guy,” is the most he says. “C’mere.”

            His arms encircle my shoulders, sleeves covering my neck, and he presses his face there making a small cave for me to hide in, hunching his shoulder to shelter me further. For a long while, we don’t speak, just stand there winding down. We stay this way until I’m ready to move, at which point he is also ready to move. I sit down on his bed and fold my legs underneath me.

            “You don’t always have to do things for me,” I say in a low voice, knowing his neighbors are just on the other side of the wall.

            He sits down beside me. “I take care of you, and you take care of me. That’s how it’s supposed to work.”

            A weight dissolves off my shoulders. Taking him by the collar of his sweater, I pull him in for a long kiss. It continues and he reciprocates, moving a hand onto my knee to brace himself. Eventually, he’s leaning in so far that I simply lay back and bring him down with me. Soon I can’t recall how we got here or why, but it’s warm in my sweater and he’s shaking off his coat, his lips loosening from mine and falling to my neck. When his arms are free he tucks them under my shoulders and tangles his fingers in my hair. Heart pounding furiously, he mutters quietly into my neck, something unintelligible even to me. In the mild chaos I try to think, but I only know him and now. If there is more to the universe than this, I don’t want it.

 

            He tells me to call him when I get home, sternly because he knows I won’t, because he knows he’s turned the tables and I’ll be getting payback by calling tomorrow when he’s in class.  

            Once home, I’m startled by how dark it is, the time change always jarring. Snow stains the lawn in melting patches, pebbly underfoot as I take stepping stones to the patio. It must be near to curfew because the building is quiet. Thinking Logan to be in his bedroom, I take the stairs, pause midway, and attempt to locate the source of that scorched smell. I sense no fire, just the mildly appetizing aftertaste of burnt wood and fabric.

            I get to the landing and for a brief second a flicker of childhood fear paralyzes me. Then I clench my jaw and stalk over the hallway rug, scored with black marks matching the ones on the ceiling. I look for claw marks too, or maybe long blue hairs, but the damage indicates a lone culprit.

            Approaching the staff quarters, I feel someone tampering with my mind. Irritated, I try to root them out when Logan appears from around the corner.

            “It’s alright, Ace. S’all under control.”

            “What happened?” I ask.

            “Scott and Jean had an argument, and I made the mistake of intervening. They’re fine now.”

            That cloying presence is still needling at my brain. Logan admitting to a mistake? One that involved protecting Jean? _“Hey.”_

            Logan furrows his brow, but I find and force the other telepath out of my head. The image of Logan blurs and Emma stands there, arms crossed. “Oh, aren’t we clever?”

            “Where’s Logan?”

            “Don’t flatter yourself. I just didn’t need an extra person mucking things up, so I thought I’d show you a friendly face.” She frowns contemptuously at the word ‘friendly’.

            “What really happened, where are they?”

            “I told you what happened, your teachers fought and bullheaded got in the way.” Condescension leaks between every enunciation. “I’m just doing damage control so everyone else can get a good night’s sleep. I heard you met your mother today. How’d that go?”

            I’m startled by my instant desire to attack her, to physically tackle her to the ground and beat her senseless. “Is Logan still up?”

            “Logan’s not even here.” She shows how little she cares by observing her fingernails. “I’m sure he sniffed out a nice watering hole to wallow in. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a curfew to enforce.”

 

            There aren’t too many bars nearby that are in Logan’s league. I find him in the first comfy dive I visit nursing a pint.

            “Do they not card here?” he asks without so much as glancing in my direction.

            I show him a card that says I was born in 1520 on Mars, and he gives me a dirty look that says I’m being a smartass. I climb onto the stool next to him. “I almost beat up Emma tonight.”

            “Good girl.”

            “Did you tell her about my mom?”

            “No. She bring up your mom?” When I nod his expression darkens and he returns to his pint.

            I recount the meeting again, lace it with the protectiveness of Clint and SHIELD, and enhance how often and how badly I thought of harming the Buell woman. My story is different for Logan than for Vince, and it would be different again for anyone else, the same way Emma was almost on the receiving end of my hatred for my mother.

            Logan walks me out to his bike, arm heavy around my shoulders. “Sleep it off. She ain’t comin’ back for you after this.”

            I tuck my hands in my armpits, hoping he doesn’t get on the bike soon. I know the amount of alcohol he just consumed was nowhere near enough to cloud his senses for the ride home, but nausea arises when I think of him taking off down that dark road alone.

            He flexes his arm around my shoulders. “You alright?”

            I run my tongue over my teeth. “I really wanted to be able to forgive her.”

            He huffs, and the streetlamp turns the cloud of his breath golden. “That’s because you’re a good person.”

            A kiss on the forehead and he decides to put both arms around me. I hide my face inside his jacket trying to be small again. I guess I never really was small. Somewhere between copying a cat’s claws and learning to survive I stopped being little. “Someone’s gotta fix that hallway.”

            Logan grunts mildly. “Replace the antique rug with a new one, replace the original ceiling panels with new ones. Can’t clean that out, can’t varnish over it. Just have to make do.”

            That last phrase turns over and over in my mind.


	55. Chapter 55

            Ten months is far too long without an emergency. I’m already downstairs by the time Xavier or Jean deigns to let me know I’ll be needed on this mission.

            Storm billows past me, shedding her blazer. “Finally.”

            Whether this is a comment on my involvement, or a shared frustration on not having a mission for a while, I concur.

            “How do we know it’s not a trap?” That’s Terry, tugging on her boots.

            Storm yanks open her locker. “Guess we'll find out.”

            I squeeze into my old suit, worn at the seams and decorated with a few burns and tears. I adjust the simultaneously loose and restraining neckline, and give my chest a dirty look. Those weren’t in the way before.

            Buckling in on the jet, I count six X-Men besides myself, and hear Hank tromping up the ramp.

            “I don’t assume Magneto is with them this time?”

            “Well we aren’t all dressed up for nuthin’,” Logan retorts. “Ace, stop twitchin’.”

            “My suit is crap,” I reply. “Stop being cranky.”

             "You need a new one?"

            "I'll get a new one."

            "You'll 'get' a new one. Where you gonna get this new one, your fairy godmother?"

            I give him a wry look. "You think I don't have one?"

            "It's okay, Ace," Terry buckles in next to me, "he's just sad his drinks more ‘n he does."

            "Shut up, both of you," Logan says in a hard, but harmless tone. I'm surprised he's in such a good mood considering everyone else onboard seems anxious and impatient. Logan must just want to fight something.

            We reach the drop point within the hour. Scott told us where we were going, but I wasn't listening. He also said some inane stuff about strategy and the element of surprise, which was all wrong.

            "There are reserves outside the building. Once we sneak past them and the conflict starts, they'll try to get in. Siryn, I need you and Storm on the outside keeping them occupied. Beast and Wolverine are ground floor- we'll keep Magneto higher up- and Ace watches the basement for anyone getting past Siryn and Storm."

            Watch the basement. Sure, that sounds like loads of fun. Meanwhile, Mr. Metal-for-Bones is only two floors down from Magneto. That’ll turn out well. I may or may not voice these thoughts aloud as I stomp down the stairs to the bottom floor of an empty office building while the sounds of struggle grunt and growl overhead. There was some explanation as to why Magneto and a good chunk of his followers are holed up here, but again I wasn't paying attention as I tried to ignore the smell of my beat-up suit.

            _“Crap.”_ I dodge a projectile that hits the wall behind me with a shatter. Some rhinoceros with a tattoo on his forehead comes barreling up the stairs toward me, and the woman behind him holds another projectile, waiting to deck me. Well, at least my complaints gave them a warning.

            The following fight is brief, painful, and rather pathetic. Two Brotherhood lie sprawled and unconscious in my wake as I pursue three more into the basement. Shut up, Scott.

            The basement is large as basements go, and I can already sense a draft from the other exit onto the first floor. If anyone got through there, they're Logan and Hank's problem now. Crates and stocked shelves do their part of making the basement a jungle, with pipes creeping up the walls and across the ceiling like vines. Three men are hiding in here, avoiding the second door for some reason even though it's wide open. One head pops up over a crate for just a moment before ducking back.

            "It's the copycat."

            If that's not the meanest thing anyone's ever called me. I slam both doors shut from where I'm standing. Now to just find the entrance they got in through. I tune in to the sounds in the room, a range of scents sneaking in through the open back door. I can't get to it to close it though.

            “So you made it on, huh?” I ask.

            The cretin with the poisonous claws clicks his tongue from behind a crate. “Looks like we both did.”

            I take a few steps forward. “My arm was purple for a week, jackass.”

            “It should’ve fallen off,” he replies, annoyed.

            “Sorry,” another slow, quiet step, “I don’t lose limbs easy.”

            There’s a conspiratorial chuckle. “Magneto’s going to find him you know.”

            I haven’t whipped out any mutations on these creeps yet. I just have to keep them in the basement a while. “Who are we talking about now?”

            “Your boyfriend, the traitor.”

            I figured that would come up soon. “You mean he doesn’t know where he is? That’s sad.”

            “No, bitch, he’s going to make him _pay_.”

            “Then he’ll have the privilege of going through me,” I yell back. There’s a delightful whoosh as I _lift_ the crate he and his cohort are hiding behind. Predictably, the guy behind the shelf on my other side materializes and lunges for me. Swing, kick, miss. He scatters into a trillion little pieces again. As Meech and the other make a break for the door, I drop the crate in their path, catching Meech on the foot. He yells and falls backward onto his crony, and this time I swing around and catch the other one around the neck before he has a chance to dematerialize again.

            I never really find out what the third mutant does, the one Meech collapsed onto. If it has something to do with strength that would explain how quickly Meech got the crate off his foot and vaulted over it towards me.

            I let him hit me full on because if I phase he’ll get to the door behind me and escape upstairs. We roll into the shifty one, still holding his head because of the brain-freeze. I can only keep Meech’s claws off me for so long- wrenching his wrists, dodging his blows- before he gets a grip around my neck and digs in. “You’re not as big as you think you are.”

            My hands gleam with Piotr’s armor. “Bigger.”

            He shrieks as I clench my fists around his wrists and pull his hands from me, throwing him backward. Bucking him off, I jump to my feet to deal with the other two morons. The room tilts and trembles, voices curling around each other, choking, twisting. The ground rushes to meet me and I put my hands out, hoping they can forgive me for failing.

 

            The voices untangle smoothly. Jean’s hand is over my wrist, two fingers pressed to my pulse, while the snarled end of an extension cord is wound around the other, its remainder trailing on behind the supply shelf where a pair of feet stick out.

            “He’s unconscious,” Logan answers, arms crossed as he leans against a crate. “Never mind, you already know that.”

            Based on the rest of the chaos in the room, I suppose I kept fighting even after the toxin made me black out. Maybe it just muddied my brain.

            “You cracked your skull on the floor,” Jean comments in a passive tone. “You may heal fast, but you don’t have adamantium over _your_ bones.”

            My neck is like concrete and my face feels puffy. _Do I look weird?_

            Logan answers in the positive, Jean the negative. I scowl at them both.

            “There’s some swelling around your throat,” Jean explains tiredly. “Otherwise you’re fine.”

            “You’ve got an ugly look on your face though,” adds Logan.

            I try to turn away from Jean, from the heavy static she’s giving off, but my head and neck flare with pain when I do. I groan under my breath.

            “Alright, we’ve got to get her home.” Jean taps her earpiece. “Cyclops, Ace is still down. How’s it looking upstairs?”

            I am not down. I am going to finish that little pervert.

            “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I must be a mess if even Logan is jumping forward to stop me. “Where do you think-”

            I hit the ground not even a foot away from where I got up. Logan just stands there as I swear into the linoleum. “Have we made our point?”

            “Kill him.” I try to sound threatening, but it comes out slurred.

            “Cyclops says we’re clear to go,” announces Jean. “SHIELD’s rounding up Brotherhood as we speak.”

            “Why do we even use codenames?” I gurgle. “We don’t even wear masks.”

            Logan drags me to my feet. “You’re snarky when you’re injured.”

            “Wonder where she gets that from,” Jean remarks while holding open the door.

            "Did you get the ones in the hallway?" I ask, doing my best to enunciate. “Did we get Magneto?”

            “Hank dragged ‘em upstairs with the rest; and no, he was slippery as usual,” Logan answers, shrugging my arm onto his shoulder. The movement stretches the damaged skin around my neck and I cry out.

            “Easy, damn.” Logan shrugs my arm off again. “Potent stuff.”

            “That’s why I said kill him- No, don’t carry me.”

            Logan grumbles something about gratitude and sets me down again.

            “We’ll put something on that at home, Ace.” Jean ushers us out the door. “Let’s just move.”

 

            Under Jean's orders, Terry kept nudging me throughout the return trip to make sure I remained conscious. I don't think that was entirely necessary, but for the first time being in the air made me extremely dizzy.

            Washing out the wound was the best Jean could do, and agreed to just let it heal on its own. Staggering out to the stables, I wrap a damp towel around my neck and collapse into bed. Just as the pain settles into a mild sting, my phone buzzes somewhere in the room. My whole head protests the sound, and I imagine this must be what it’s like to feel hung over- with the exception of the puffy claw marks on my throat.

            The buzzing won’t stop and I consider just killing it from here. What if it’s Vince though? And perhaps it’s because I’m still in mission mode, but the thought of it being Stark or Clint with an emergency also crosses my mind. I reach my hand out, aiming in the direction the sound is coming from, and _pull_. My shoulder bag tumbles across the room, emptying its contents onto Kitty’s rug. I curse quietly and aim again. The mini-fridge tilts onto one foot before rocking back with a small grunt, knocking my phone into a pile of laundry. Screw it, I’m getting up.

            My own groan bounces around in my head, my ears clogged up. I pat the laundry down until I find the noisy object lying on its face so I can't see the light. The buzzing continues and I look at the screen. Crap, eighteen texts from Matt. _How you doin'? Where are you? Come chill out. I'm at the club. I miss you. I can’t stop thinking about you. Come see me, baby._

            They're laughable, but laughing hurts. I reply to the most recent one. _You realize this is Ace, right?_

            He doesn't reply right away, so I climb back into bed with the phone and wait. If he's at a club and he's texting, then that means he's sitting at the bar drunk as a skunk. I hope he takes a cab.

            The phone buzzes. _Have you been avoiding me? I need you._

            I furrow my brow. _I was on a mission. What’s wrong, you need a ride home?_

            Another long wait before he replies. _Baby, please, I’ve got no one to talk to._

            _Stop calling me that. Did you just get dumped or something?_

            That does what I thought it might and shuts him up. I text again. _Matt, I’ll come hang out with you, but you can’t keep treating me like a spare tire when your relationships go bust. If you’re lonely and plastered, call a cab and just go home._

            I set the phone down and groan aloud. I’m suffering all the intensity of a fever at once; cold sweat, burning skin, and my throat is all clogged up. I cough just as the phone buzzes once more.

            _Every time I have a breakup you treat it like a joke. You roll your eyes and tell Vince, and then the two of you just laugh. Why the hell do you think I don’t talk to you while I’m in a relationship if this is how you treat me when I’m not?_

            I turn off the phone and sit up carefully. I do not need this weirdness tonight. Just sitting up made me dizzy, and I still have the smell of that basement on my skin. No, just relax, this isn’t that bad. You just need to find a way to feel better. Where can you go to feel better?

            As soon as I land my knees give out and I slouch to the floor. Joints groaning, the stuffiness in my throat begins to throb again. Bad, bad move teleporting in such a state, what was I thinking?

            The lights from charging devices and a digital clock are all that break the gloom of Vincent’s dorm. He and Sukraj sleep peacefully, unwilling to be bothered by the weirdo who just teleported into their room. The fever is past, and I don’t feel anything gross needing to be coughed up. All the symptoms seem to be clearing, but this current phase makes me feel like a sack of sand.

            Not intending to stay for long, but wishing I’d been less impulsive in coming, I curl up next to Vince in bed, his back to me. My head aches with heaviness and my eyelids keep forcing themselves shut. Every section of my body groans with pain if I move, so I lie still letting the Vincent-shaped heat source next to me relax it all. I’ve barely settled in when he shifts.

            “Hey,” sleepy voice, “hey, what’re you doing here?” He turns over and arcs an arm over my head. “Ace?”

            I cover my face and neck with my arms as he turns over to face me. There’s a lamp by his bed and he turns it on now.

            “Sweetie?” he touches my arms lightly. “What’s wrong, why are you here?”

            “I’m sorry,” trying not to slur, “I didn’t want to wake you.”

            “Are you…hurt?” he moves my hair, fingers just grazing the wound.

            I flinch hard and pull away from him. _Sorry. I’m just going to go._

            “No, wait.” He pulls me back again. “I’m sorry, I won’t look. C’mere.”

            I keep the wound covered as he tucks me in and kisses my forehead.

            “There you go. Were you on a mission?” When I give a careful nod he only looks more concerned. “You’ve never been hurt like this. The only time was when we were in town and that creep slashed your arm.” He runs his fingers through my hair. “Who were you guys dealing with?”

            I hide my face too. “S’not important.”

            “Snot?” he teases. “It wasn’t them was it? Let me see.”

            “No, it’s gross, don’t-” I move to the edge of the bed as he tries to pry my arms loose. “Don’t touch me.”

            He withdraws his hands onto the blanket between us. “I’m sorry, I won’t. But was it Meech?”

            _Yes. He’s SHIELD’s problem now._

 _Really? Did they take anyone else? Do you think they can handle them? Sorry, too many questions._ He places his fingers lightly on my elbow. _Wouldn’t want that bastard hurting someone who didn’t know what he’s capable of._

I take a deep breath. _Right. They’ll figure it out._

He ghosts his fingers up and down my arm, as though memorizing the shape. _Are you going to be okay?_

I hesitate before pulling my arms away. _I think the swelling's already gone down. I had a fever earlier, but that's gone too._

"Shit," he says breathlessly, tilting the lamp to get a better look. "Tell me someone knocked him out before SHIELD got there."

            I nod slowly, swallowing carefully. "I blacked out, but I think-" Another swallow. _He was unconscious when we left, I just don't remember doing it._

Vince lets out a long breath, brows crooked as he pulls back the neck of my shirt. "It's going to be healing for a while isn't it? I'm so sorry, baby."

            _SHIELD has some special facility for mutants no doubt._ I cover it with my arm again. _Wasn't a failure overall._

            Vince frowns and just looks at me for a little while. "C'mere."

            I move closer, resting my head on his arm and letting him hold my back. He runs a hand through my hair with his other hand.

            “You know how you said you wanted to go slow?” he says. “Well we’ve been in bed together like four times now.”

            I pinch his arm. “If you think we should go slower, fine, but it is March and we’ve been…us since November. Where should we be at this point?”

            He makes a face. “There aren’t really milestones, sweetie. Where do you think we should be?”

            I consider this for a moment then kiss him on the lips. “Right here’s fine.”

            Something, whether it was the kiss or the statement, spurs Vince to react. Fingers through my hair, lips on my face, bodies pressed close. It’s lunacy, some sickness that makes him lose his mind whenever he touches me. It was overwhelming the first time it happened, then I tried playing along, and now I think I’m sick too. I tremble trying to touch him. I want to run my fingers through his hair while he holds me, to kiss his warm skin and trace my lips around the shell of his ear. I want everything about this man. How is my Vince a man all of a sudden? How did the boy disappear?

            He pulls away, brushing my hair out of my face. "You going to make the trip home?"

            Breathless. "Yeah. I'll just feel like crap once I land."

            Sukraj shifts in his bed and we both hold our breath. When he doesn't make another sound, Vince kisses me on the lips one more time. "Go get some sleep, beautiful."

            I don't want sleep. I want more of him. With a heavy sigh, I gently knock my forehead against his and get up from the bed. I wouldn't know what to do with more of him even if he offered it.

           

            "It was the same jerk?" Madge gives a worried look and peers closer. "Hold still."

            "I wouldn't touch it without gloves," I say. "I don't even like looking at it a day later."

            Her cold fingers are startling against the warm skin around the wound, but soon the difference in temperature is only soothing.

            "It might tickle a bit," she says, concentrating, “but try to hold still.”

            Whatever she’s doing, the rest of my nervous system notices. My limbs turn weak and my nerves are on thin ice. My neck tingles and itches, but she keeps moving her fingers around the punctures, making the feeling worse. “Madge-”

            Shushing me, she reaches into her skirt pocket. “It’s just like when you do it only now I’m doing it for you.” With her teeth she tears open a sanitary wipe and pats down my neck. “Okay.”

            “Okay what?”

            “You’re good, all better.” She smiles sweetly and crumples up the wipe and its package. “I think Jean washed the venom out well enough yesterday, so it wasn’t actually that hard.”

            “Geez, Mags, you could’ve done that when he ripped up my arm.”

            “No, I wasn’t as good at it then, and you barely let me do this,” she says in an upbraiding tone. “Now go check in the mirror and see if I missed any spots. It’ll be kind of green for a while.”

            A cooperative patient, I step into her shared bathroom. “Maggie, this is fantastic. What are we going to do without you after you graduate?”

            “Hopefully not catch plague.” She steps around me to throw away the wipe and wash her hands. “I told you I’m interning for Jean all summer, right? I’ll be home for two weeks at the end before I’m off to Illinois. I meant to tell you sooner, but senior year’s been keeping me on my toes.”

            My phone rings and I check before answering and handing it to Madge. She gives me a confused look and dries her hands before taking it. "Hello? Oh, hi, Matt." She smacks me. "Yeah, she's right here being weird."

            I relieve her of the phone. "Yes?"

            "Why are you embarrassing Maggie?" he asks in a vaguely reprimanding tone. "Have you no one better to haze?"

            "Well, my usual victims are in college right now. Or passed out in bars, I couldn’t say.”

            “Vinny gets busy huh?” he tries to joke. When I don’t reply he clears his throat. “Look there’s a little pub nearby, thought I’d buy you lunch.”

            “Like a date?”

            He sighs derisively. “No, just…lunch.”

            “Can I bring Madge?” Madge is shaking her head wild-eyed, gesturing to her unbrushed hair and weekend clothes.

            “I, well, no I just want to talk to you.”

            Matt knows my forgiveness can be bought with words and sorrowful looks. “I’ll be there in a second.”

 

            The barman gives me a nod as I take a seat near the front. “What can I get you, love?”

            “The guy I’m waiting for will buy me something.”

            “No worries, love,” he says off-handedly before walking away.

            The front door opens and the familiar scent of Matthew’s cologne breezes in. I just barely turn in my seat to face him. "Hey.”

            “Hey.” Hands in his pockets, not taking a seat, making weak eye contact.

            “Don’t drunk-text me anymore.”

            “I know, I’m sorry.” He rubs his hands over his face to prove his shame.

            “I was really beat up that night, and you were being an ass.”  I make him keep eye contact with me instead of wimping out. “It was an English girl I take it?”

            “French.”

            Dumbass. I kick the stool next to me, and wisely he takes it.   

            “What happened to your neck?” he asks, eyeing me warily.

            “Attempted murder. You said you were going to buy me lunch.”

            He gives a nervous chuckle. “Yeah, um, well you can get pot pie and fries here.”

            “Pie and chips.”

            “Or we can go to the Indian place down the road.”

            “The curry house- Matt, you’ve lived here for eight months and you still sound like a dumb American.”

            “Well, stop being annoyed when normal people don’t pick things up as fast as you do, geez.” Frowning, he tries to get the barman’s attention. “You’re like some undercover spy who isn’t actually from anywhere.”

            I rub my neck, bothered by that. “Why were you hitting on me?”

            He gives up on the barman. “I told you, I’d just had a breakup.”

            “I know, but you’ve never actually hit on me when that happens.”

            “Obviously I was drunk too, Ace.”

            “Amy,” I correct without thinking.

            He says something terse under his breath. “I’m calling you Ace.”

            I look at him out of the corner of my eye. “Are you alright?

            “Yeah, no, actually I kind of feel like shit. Why are we still talking about this?”

            “Dude, relax, you said you wanted to talk. So, talk.”

            He looks hard at me, rubbing his lips together like he has something groundbreaking to say, but doesn’t want the room to fall silent when he says it. “Seemed important when I called. Doesn’t matter now.”

 


	56. Chapter 56

            Mike Cozad hugs me again. “You’re a good girl.”

            I’m not convinced he properly remembers who I am.

            “Dad,” Madge tugs on his sleeve, “we’re going this way.”

            Vince has the hood of the Cozad’s car up for no good reason. Mike gets distracted by this and together they run an amateur’s diagnosis of that weird sound it makes when you rev it. Thus, Madge’s mom Debra sits behind the wheel revving it whenever asked. Meanwhile Riley, one of Madge’s friends whose parents are trapped in layover hell, stands nearby looking sideways at Matt while fiddling with the faux leather strap of her purse.

            “She’s lasted us a few good years,” Mike says, patting the hood of the car after slamming it shut. “She’ll last us a few more.”

            “We aren’t going to miss your reservation, are we, sweetie?” Debra asks through the open window. She smiles at me with a blasé wave of the hand. “This car didn’t come with a clock.”

            “We have time, Debbie,” her husband says, climbing into the passenger’s seat. “The restaurant won’t close before we get there.”

            Madge sighs as she climbs into the backseat with Riley. “Just make sure to follow Matt, okay, Ma? Dad, _no maps.”_

            Leaning against the open door of his car, Matt swings his key ring around his index finger, shaking his head at Vince’s dirty hands and pointing to the house. When we’re finally on the road, Vince leans forward from the backseat. “Okay, so normally I keep my mouth shut about these things-”

            “Keep it that way,” Matt interrupts.

            “-but you guys need to work this out before we get to the restaurant.”

            “And avoid all the arguments you and Ace used to have? Yeah, I’m not that ill-behaved, Vin.”

            I snort. Vince bats my shoulder. “Matt, why are you mad at Ace?”

            “I’m not.”

            I should’ve sat in the backseat. “You have been kind of a pain lately. And you never explained what was going on back in March.”

            “Oh good, now you’re both ganging up on me,” Matt glares at the road. “Can we not do this while I’m driving?”

            Vince puts his hand over my face. “Ace won’t say anything.”

            I snap at his fingers. “This isn’t about Ace.”

            “It’s not about me either,” replies Matt. “Seriously, don’t piss me off while I’m driving.”

            Vince sits back with a heavy sigh. “Guys, c’mon, I’m not good at this.”

            “Our mediator is in the car behind us,” I say, “probably mediating her parents so they don’t embarrass her in front of Riley.”

            Matt turns on the radio. “Madge’s parents aren’t the least bit embarrassing.”

            “They’re nice,” Vince says absently, probably staring out the window. “Doesn’t Madge have three older siblings?”

            “Yeah, she’s the baby of the family.” I readjust my seat. “The stinker.”

 

            Vince stretches and looks around the garage for level numbers. “You’ll be able to find the car again, right?”

            “I’ll be alright. Hey." Matt’s hand brushes my back, and I turn so he can take me into a tight hug. “It's just been a bad year."

            I slide my arms up and hook my hands onto his shoulders. Vince comes up from behind and hugs me too.

            “Get off,” grumbles Matt. “Nerd, get off.”

            “My girlfriend, jerk.”

            “Yeah, well we’re having a moment.”

            Pulling away, I stand on tiptoe to give Matt a kiss on the cheek. “You seem taller than the last time I did that.”

            Vince hasn’t let go of me yet. “He kind of looks like Captain America.”

            “He looks nothing like Captain America,” I correct. “Captain America is much prettier.”

            “You hear that, Vin?” Matt pokes him in the shoulder. “Captain America is prettier.”

            Vince scoffs. “Prettier than _you_ , she didn’t say anything about him being prettier than _me.”_

            Meeting up with the others, we follow Matt a few blocks to the restaurant he booked. Vince drapes an arm around my shoulders, and while we manage to keep up with the conversation of our guests, we spend most of the walk conversing telepathically with one another.

 

            “Is it here?” Madge asks, looking at a dark storefront as Matt comes to a stop.

            “It’s upstairs,” he replies, pointing out a staircase lit with blue lights, and putting his arm out to her.

            Madge bows her head, a sure sign she’s blushing, and takes his arm. Matt then offers Riley his other arm which she does not hesitate to accept. Mike automatically does the same for Debra, and Vince just gives me a sarcastic smile like I knew he would. We head up the stairs like a weird triple date where one of the couples has already been married for thirty years, and Matt has a teenage girl on each arm.

            “I think that Captain America comment went to his head,” Vince whispers, thinking the same thing.

            “He knows he’s pretty,” I reply.

            The restaurant is clean, quiet, and what Madge breathlessly describes as “perfect”. Even Vince is a little awed by the spotless white tablecloths and well-dressed patrons, apparently never having been anywhere fancier than an IHOP. I, on the other hand, keep my mouth shut as I’m sure my observation that it’s a standard upper-middle-class retreat would come off as rude and unwanted. We’re shown to our table, marked by a small sign that says “Congrats!” in cursive gold letters. Caught up with gratitude, Madge gives Matt a hug around the middle.

            “I didn’t think it would be _this nice_.”

            Matt lifts his head, the corners of his mouth turning up subtly. Meanwhile I ponder how such a minor detail as a customized paper sign could surpass even Madge’s wildest anticipations.

            Dinner goes well. Mike and Vince talk cars across the table, while Madge and Riley pester Matt with questions and laugh at his jokes. I keep Debra occupied, discussing at length the aspects of life in a small town and what is was like raising each of her kids. Everyone seems content, and I remind myself to give Matt praise later for organizing such a nice evening.

            “That’s got to be her.”

            My nerves tingle, and I focus my attention on a table at the other side of the restaurant.

            “I’m going to go ask her.”

            I heard when they noticed me, but dismissed it as I spoke with Debra. Now I get up from the table. “Matt, where’s the- Never mind, I see it.”

            No, I don’t see the damned bathroom, but I’m going to start walking like I do. Finding it, I step inside and duck into one of the stalls. The next three seconds are spent praying the woman who’s about to enter is just here to clean sauce out of her dress. The door opens and closes, but the woman just stands there, waiting. I want to bang my head against something. Flushing the toilet for effect, I step out and head straight to the sink to wash my hands, bracing myself.

            “Are you one of the New York heroes?”

            I stare at her reflection in the mirror. “I’m sorry?”

            “Are you one of the Heroes of New York?” she pointlessly repeats.

            I analyze her to remind myself this is an ordinary person and not a threat. Curls she did herself, heavy mascara, and an unflattering shade of lipstick. Thick calves from regular exercise, but a full waist from sitting still too often- perhaps an office job she walks to where a snack drawer awaits.

            “No,” I reply bluntly. “I don’t even know which one I’d be.”

            “Oh,” she seems mildly surprised, “so you aren’t that girl in that YouTube video?”

            Which part did you not understand? “No, I don’t have an account. Sorry.”

            I wash my hands and begin to ignore her. She says something else, perhaps an offhanded apology, and goes back to her table. I _lock_ the door behind her and press my forehead against the granite countertop.

            When I return the crew has already ordered dessert. Vince taps a takeout box with his fork. “Your dinner’s in here. I ordered the brownie.”

            No appetite. I take my seat, listening to that other table still gossiping aloud, speculating and staring.

            “You have a famous look-a-like apparently,” Mike comments amiably.

            I blink and look up at him.

            _“Dad, shush,”_ warns Madge. Instead of looking at me with a sorry face, she looks at Vince.

            “It happens all the time,” Vince says. “A lot of famous people live in this neighborhood, so everyone thinks they’ve seen someone.”

            Mike nods understandingly, and Debra smiles. “You ever see anybody famous around here? Matthew?”

            Matt looks up from his slice of cake. “Saw Kelly Clarkson once. Do you watch reality TV, Debbie?”

            “Oh, I don’t like those shows myself,” she replies, flattered by the use of her nickname.

            The subject neatly changed, Vince puts a hand on my knee under the table. _Did one of them follow you into the bathroom?_

            I try not to look alarmed as I cut my fork through the dense brownie. _Did her friends come to the table?_

            He squeezes my knee. _Tourists. They just asked if you were famous online. They didn’t say anything about the attack._

            Good. The last thing I need is for people to be triggered by my presence.

            _Are you going to be okay?_ Vince pauses eating to listen for my reply. _Do you want to finish your dinner first?_

            _I want to go home._

            He sighs and smoothes his palm over my knee. _I’ll fake a seizure and you can drive me home, how’s that?_

            I smile, pretending it’s at whatever Matt just said. _I’ll make it through dessert, dope._

            He removes his hand from my knee, laughs at Matt’s joke, and knocks his plate against mine. “I don’t know what I ordered, but I think it’s rum cake. Finish it for me?”

            I wrinkle my nose, but trade his dessert for mine anyway. “You were willing to fake a seizure.”

           

            The wind whips briskly across the mansion lawn. Debra takes my hand, her warm personality seeping into my skin. “Thank you for humoring me tonight. I’m sure you didn’t want to talk about Iowa for so long.”

            “Not at all. Madge is such a clam, it’s nice to hear what she was like as a kid." I give a self-deprecating shrug. "Thank you for listening to me talk about tutoring.”

            She smiles kindly, almost sympathetically, and hugs me around the shoulders. “Take your time with yourself. You’re young, you’re bright, and you’re good at picking out friends. Save the stress for when you’re our age.”

            Then she laughs, and I laugh too just because she did. The wind wraps her skirt around her knees, and she looks at the others standing by the cars. “Now, Matthew is the sound one, right? Or is that Vincent?”

            I hesitate, unable to comprehend her for a moment.

            "His gift?" she adds.

            “Oh," I thought she meant 'sound' as in reasonable, "Matt. He likes music.”

            “That’s right, that’s right.” She pats my shoulder with each assurance. “Maggie talks about him a lot.”

            I look over at Madge with her windblown hair and Matt’s jacket around her shoulders. “She does give herself away doesn’t she?”

            Debra giggles, pleased that we both know something her daughter doesn’t. “He seems like a good boy.”

            I clear my throat. “He can be.”

            The Cozads head back to their hotel, and the girls call it a night. Matt seems tired when I tell him it was a lovely evening, but he smiles anyway before heading to the lounge to watch TV. Bolting the stables from the inside I groan. “That was awful.”

            “It was fine,” Vince stands in the doorway to my room, hands in pockets.

            “It was embarrassing.” I squeeze past him. “They came _to the table_.”

            “Nobody minded.” He closes the door and pulls my hair back. “I actually felt like a celebrity. I wanted to say ‘Yep, that’s my epic girlfriend,’ but that wouldn’t’ve been smart.”

            “I don’t want to feel like a celebrity.” I pull away from him so my hair falls back the way it was. “It made everyone feel awkward.”

            “Sweetheart,” he’s using his careful voice, “I think you misread them. They seemed just fine with it. They think New York is always like that.”

            I'm having difficulty wrapping my head around what he’s saying. “Vinny, I’m sorry, that was really weird and I tried not to snap at that girl, but…I don’t know I hope it was alright. I don’t know-”

            Turning me around, Vince pulls me into a deep kiss. I’m tempted to push him off, to remind him that spinning me around is not okay, but right now I need the distraction. Taking fistfuls of my jacket, he keeps me held against him, moving me backwards until the edge of the bed presses against the backs of my knees, locking them. I want to hold him, but he just keeps kissing, and the bed is in the way, and I can’t move, I can’t turn away. My anxiety spikes a notch.

            Vince lets go of my jacket and steps back. “Did I crowd you?”

            I step away from the bed, take a breath, and pull him back. Carefully, I lift one leg onto the bed at a time until I’m knelt on the edge. I kiss by his ear and along his jaw, holding his face with one hand. He doesn’t move or speak, just stands still with a warm, emotionless expression, closing his eyes to enjoy it. He’s so calm. He’s never been so calm.

            “I was really proud of you tonight,” he says softly.

            I pull him down on top of me, enjoying the thrill he gets. “Thanks for watching the kids while I panicked, I guess.”

            He slides a hand into mine. “But you didn’t.” The fingers of his other hand brush under the hem of my shirt. “You’re doing great.”

            I’m a bit busy kissing the side of his face to hear him, but when his fingers slide a little higher, I wonder what we’re waiting for. _Vinny?_

            He hesitates for a second, then kisses me a little harder and tugs on the hem of my shirt. Pushing him off, I shed my jacket and pull my shirt over my head, knowing my hair is going to be a mess once I do. He sits up next to me and kisses my shoulder while I rearrange it.

            “I should cut my hair again,” I say.

            The kisses move to my neck. “You look great and you know it.”

            Keeping my smile to myself, I turn to face him and tug on his shirt in return. Unexpected, his hand slides over my stomach and around to my back. I tug on his shirt again, but he pulls away.

            “I don’t want to do it yet.”

            From his features I can’t tell if he’s serious or not, but his emotions match up. “Alright. Why not?”

            He licks his lips, which are a little swollen. “It just feels too soon.”

            After pausing for a second, he too takes his shirt off. I was expecting the same lean, pale body from when he was a teenager, forgetting that guys change too, and that a summer spent lifting supplies in the sun gave him a tan and some modest muscle tone.

            “You look hot, Vinny.”

            He laughs under his breath, embarrassed. “You’re terrible.”

            “How’d you stay so tan over the winter?”

            He looks down at himself. “I went to the beach a couple times?”

            “Get over here.”

            With a rude laugh, he tackles me and we fall back into the bed.

           

            “You know you’re not allowed to tell Matt you made it to second base tonight,” I tell him later, “right?”

            “I do not have a death wish, no.” He lies still with his head against my chest as I card his hair. “Don’t tell him I said no to sex.”

            “I’m making it a rule we don’t tell Matt anything about us doing stuff.”

            “That works. You don’t have girl-talk with Madge do you?”

            “I don’t even know the definition of the word, but Madge is a good Christian girl who wouldn’t want to talk about it anyway.”

            Vince snickers and ghosts a hand up my side just to make me shiver and smack him. “Matt’s going to own a Fortune 500 company, Madge is going to run her own hospital ward, and neither of them is going to remember to call or write us.”

            “Kids are so ungrateful,” I say, lifting my head to look at him. “They never- What’s that?”

            “What?” he asks, eyes closed.

            “On your back.” I reach my hand out to touch it. “A tattoo?”

            He rolls off of me and onto his back. “Trade places.”

            “When did you get it?” I roll onto my side. “In California or before that?”

            He scratches his chin. “Tattoos were a Brotherhood thing. It’s not finished.”

            “Can I see it?”

            Sucking in his lips, he thinks about it then turns onto his stomach. “I’ll get it removed. I didn’t really want it in the first place.”

            A long, black line meanders down his back, parallel to his spine, with a shape like a spade handle at the end. “What was it going to be when it was finished?”

            “I don’t remember now, I didn’t pick it.” His back muscles twitch as I trace it with my finger. “Some design meaning ‘Power’ or ‘Strength’ or ‘Humans Suck’.”

            I kiss his back. “It looks good on you.”

            He scoffs into his arm and hides his face. “I keep forgetting it’s there.”

            I run my fingers over his ribs like he did to me. “I’ll get one just like it.”

            “Won’t the ink just…come back out?”

            “Most likely.” I kiss along his upper back and then just hold him. “Why is it too soon?”

            “It just is. I don’t- I’m not ready to do that with you. Don’t get me wrong, I want to, but I just think we’ll ruin it if we do it too soon.”

            I think I understand him. “Have you done it before?”

            He doesn’t reply right away. “Yes. Not with Kirsten, but…with the other girl.”

            The Brotherhood girl. “You didn’t like it?”

            He grumbles and hunches his shoulders. “I don’t like talking about any of that.”

            I sigh, liking the way his shoulders rise and fall under my cheek. “Okay. How do you know you’re my first?”

            “Am I not?”

            “You are, but how did you know?”

            “I know you. You’ve had better things to do.”

            I kiss his shoulder. “I love you.”

            “I love you too.”

            “And I’m taking your advice." I close my eyes, wanting to fall asleep to this feeling. "I’m going to be on both teams.”

            His back rises and falls with a satisfying sigh. “You’ll be fantastic.”

           

            The balcony of what was once Stark Tower has been sculpted into a small hangar bay with the font of glowing self-promotion completely removed. The tower is even busier than it was several months ago, the newest swarm of craftsmen putting the finishing touches on every hallway and conference room. Tony is holed up in his finished lab, running diagnostics on something. When he notices I've entered the room, he sets his protein shake down and shoos the aiding technicians. “Why do you look so happy?”

            There’s a comfy-looking loveseat in here, so naturally I flop down and pull up my legs. “I had a nice night. My last kid graduated high school, so we went out to dinner with her and her parents. They’re nice people.”

            Tony gives me a small smile. “And how are Larson and Vincenzo? “

            “They’re fine. Heard anything from Bruce lately?”

            Surprisingly, he nods. “He’s staying in touch. I got him a one-way charter back here this fall. If he can’t make it, I booked him for the next three seasons after that.”

            I lie down on the couch, wishing the leather weren’t so chilly from the A/C. “You’re a nice person too.”

            Tony laughs. “You _are_ in a good mood. Or you’re buttering me up, what do you want?”

            “I hear you’re making Bruce special pants,” I say ‘pants’ with a German accent, “for when he hulks out.”

            “You heard that?”

            “Maybe Pepper and I text each other.”

            “Maybe you’ve compromised the firewall on more than one occasion.”

            “Maybe I should get paid for finding all the weaknesses in your system.”

            “Maybe I shouldn’t have taught you how to do that,” he says bitterly. “Why do you care about _pants?_ ” He echoes my dorky pronunciation.

            “I need a new suit. Something durable, doesn’t have to be fancy.”

            Tony sniffs and looks at the ceiling. “It sounds like it needs glitter.”

            “I hate you.”

            “Tons of glitter, _truckloads_ of glitter.” He pinches his fingers together to show size. “Pink, in the shape of little hearts.”

            “You know all those times I let you live?”

            He giggles gleefully. “So besides glitter what other features would you like in this suit?”

            “Not a jumpsuit. Fingerless gloves because some abilities don’t work with gloves, but I still need gloves.”

            “Which abilities? Important to know.”

            “Ice. If I’m wearing gloves it just builds up inside my suit instead of going where I want it to. Also, I need a mask or a helmet. A visor might work too, but they’re so Robocop.”

            “Why a mask?”

            “I don’t like being recognized.”

            Tony makes a face. “In my experience masks only freak people out. Bad guys wear masks.”

            “So does Captain America,” I point out, “and he’s the weirdo dressed like he’s in a parade.”

            “I’m working on that,” Tony chimes, “trying to tone down the bloated patriotism without taking away the appeal.”

            “The appeal?”

            “Captain America is trustworthy, gives off a feeling of security.” He waves his hand dismissively. “People put faith in ridiculous things, but at least you can capitalize on that.”

            I stare at the ceiling, my senses telling me there are at least six more floors above me. I imagine them collapsing one-by-one, pancake style. “My suit needs to be able to hold up to a lot. Doesn’t need to be bullet-proof, but if a building falls on me I’d like it if my suit didn’t fall apart while I’m climbing out.”

            There's a snort. “I like how you expect not to die when a building falls on top of you.”

            “Tony, we’ve talked about this.”

            He rolls his chair away from the desk. “You have so many quirks I forget. C’mere.”    

            I roll off the couch, and with a few quick strokes he fans out a series of designs, all involving the capital letter ‘A’. “I’ve been working on an insignia for the team. These are the finalists. Thoughts?”

            I enlarge the ones I like best and push the others to the side. "They all look pretty good to me. What's with the arrow though, are we FedEx or something?"

            "I'm glad I can always count on you to be critical. Scoot." He pokes me in the side so he can take over the table. “I’ve already got mockups to use on the suits anyway.”

            I bite my cheek. "Can it be a patch that I take off when I'm not Avenging? You know, so I can wear it while doing other stuff?"

            "You want to pick up guys while in the suit?"

            “Unlike you my goal in life is not to attract members of the opposite sex." I cross my arms. “Tony, I just need a suit; a multi-purpose, multi-affiliation suit."

            "That's what I thought, who are they, let me see some paperwork."

            Ignoring him, I go around to the other side of the table. "I do the same stuff, I just need to be able to remove the logo."

            “Is it the mutant team? You two-timing us, urchin?”

            “Hey, half your lot are working for SHIELD aren’t they?” I tap away at my side of the table just to bug him. “Are you making Natasha’s suit? I need mine to be even more breathable than hers. I don’t know how she moves in the one she had last summer.”

            “The one she had last summer was not made for what she volunteered to do.” Tony’s fingers fly over the surface of the table as he jots down notes. “If she’s going to do battle again she’ll get a suit for that. Go stand over there.”

            I give him a skeptical look, but stand where he tells me too. “Are you going to need measurements-"

            A web of holographic blue pops up around me, wrinkling down over my clothes until it disappears off the tips of my toes.

            "Nope, got 'em."

            "Warn me before you do invasive stuff like that."

            “You look svelte- Did you lose weight?”

            “Are you implying I used to be fat?” I take a wheeled chair and glide it over to him. “No, I’m just preparing for the next alien apocalypse. Any ideas as to when one can be expected?”          

            His laugh is breathy and cynical. “Sorry, no forecast on that.”

            Anxiety. Not mine this time, but strong enough to feel like it was. “You got that cube thing off the planet, right? That’s all they wanted.”

            My phone blips with the tone reserved for Scott. I wonder if it’s actually an emergency or if he’s just found a new chore for me. I swipe the screen. “Yikes.”

            “What?”

            “Nothing.” I wave my hand over the holo-table as I pass, messing up his work. “Gotta run.”

 

            A red blast splinters past me, lowering the number of mutant jerks on my tail. I leap onto the ramp of the jet, Scott grabbing my arm and pulling me in. The ramp seals shut, and I collapse onto the floor, having difficulty keeping the ragged laughter from escaping.

            “You alright, kid?” Logan stands over me.

            I hold up the centrifuge I was carrying. “Nabbed the whole thing. Hope that’s okay.”

            “Why is she laughing?” Scott asks in a tired tone as he steps over me to his seat, out of breath.

            “Because she’s nuts,” Logan answers, taking the device from me and handing it back to Hank. “Strap in, maniac.”           

            I know I have a dreamy smile on my face when I fall forward out of the elevator and into Vinny’s arms. “Hey, cutie.”

            “You drunk,” he teases, rubbing dirt off my cheek. “Save the world or just have fun?”

            I chuckle and push him. “Yeah.”

            He knows where I go next, half supporting me as I lean on his shoulder on our way to the gym. “Matt and I are going to the movies. We invited Madge, but she didn’t want to see it.” He stands on tiptoes as we enter the gym. “Yeah, there she is.”

            He pushes my earbuds into my hands and kisses me on my dusty forehead. “Don’t wear yourself out.”

            “Go get sick on Junior Mints…or whatever it is you’re into these days.”

            “I just sneak burgers in,” he grins. “See you when I get back.”

            The room breathes with the steady drone of equipment. Taking a drink of water, Madge beams and gestures to the treadmill beside hers, my sweater already draped over the arm of it. The treadmill sings as I set it to its highest setting, something techno and loud bleeding through my earbuds and into my brain. Once I’ve turned the music off and slowed my speed down to a light jog, Madge leans over slightly, barely altering her leisurely stroll.

            “Five miles? My legs would be jelly by that point.”

            I just nod and give a quick grin. “That’s when you try for the other five.”

            She doesn’t seem like she heard me as she taps away at the buttons on her older phone. “Has Matt ever liked you?”

            “No.”

            “How do you know?”

            “Because he’s not attracted to me. Why?"

            She shrugs. "I was just wondering how you'd tell."

            I glance over at her and her phone. “In high school when he had a crush on me, Vinny would make a hug last because he didn't want it to end. When Matt’s affectionate he’s flirty which means it isn’t real." I slow my pace down so it's easier to talk. "A couple times he got scared or things got too deep for him, and he wanted to be comforted with real affection. But those times it was for him to feel good, not me.”

            Madge frowns. “That sounds so selfish.”

            I shrug. "He’s still a good guy, he just hasn’t been raised to think about others. Lots of people are like that. You just come to accept it with the rest of him.”

            Madge continues typing away on her phone until I can no longer afford nuance. "You're texting him."

            She chews her lip as she proofreads her text.

            "You realize he's probably the one driving, right?"

            "Shoot," she puts her phone down on the holder, "I forgot."

            I continue to look at the phone. "When did you guys start talking?"

            "Um, it was still winter I think. March." Her eyes flicker to the mounted television where a commercial plays. “I said hi to him online, and then we were just chatting and…well he sounded unhappy so I just kept him talking. I don't know if it helped.”

            "Unhappy about what?" I ask.

            “Well, he didn't want to say anything about it, but it sounded like there was a nasty fight between him and his last girlfriend. He was just regretting all his past relationships at once really.”

            “Huh,” I watch Madge as she watches the TV, “he usually comes to me with his girlfriend troubles.”

            Madge looks a little puzzled. “Well…maybe because you’re dating his friend he feels he can’t anymore?”

            “No,” I answer uncertainly. “I mean, I did tell him off for sending me flirty texts after his breakup, but he only did it because he was drunk.” I think of the multiple girlfriends he had in high school and how “taken” means little to him.

            Madge fans herself as her machine slows to a stop. “He seems okay now, doesn’t he?”

            “It’s summertime.” I turn my speed up again. “He’ll be fine as long as it’s summertime.”


	57. Chapter 57

_Summer 2012_

 

            Glitter freaking everywhere.

            "It's not my favorite store either," Madge wrinkles her nose as a twelve-year-old runs by with a stick of noxious lip gloss. "But they pierce ears on the cheap."

            There's a shout of laughter out in the walkway as Vince smacks Matt for an inappropriate joke. "Sorry, Mags, I have to pass."

            I tug on her sleeve as I turn to leave. "They'd freak out when my ear spat the earring back out anyway."

            Matt's yelling over the balcony at a flock of pretty undergrads while Vince pretends not to know him. I walk up beside Matt, take him by the collar, and drag him away mid-sentence. “You’re too old to be babysat, and we’re too old to hang around the mall like teenagers.”

            Madge clears her throat.

            “Present teenager excluded.” I glance up at the skylight as a cloud blots out the sun, thinking it an aircraft. “Let’s go _do_ something.”

            “Let’s knock something over,” Vince replies, sliding down a stair railing. “Let’s start a protest against men’s hair gel.”

            “I don’t use hair gel,” Matt contests.

            “I didn’t say you did, dude.”

            Matt pushes Vince down the next railing, followed by general roughhousing.

            “They’re going to get us kicked out,” I say to Madge. When she doesn’t react I check to see if she heard me, but she’s looking over her shoulder at the undergrads on the floor below.

            “How do they get like that?” she asks heavily. “How are they so skinny? Is that the kind of girl Matt likes?”

            “Vanity, Madge. Excessive doses of vanity and insecurity make them that skinny,” I say. “Then they rove about in packs of other vain, skinny girls hoping to pick up vain, easy-to-impress boys.”

            Pursing her lips, Madge crosses her arms, watching her footing as we follow the guys down the steps. Then she looks up just as another group of girls passes by, all eyes on The-Guy-Who-Doesn't-Gel-His-Hair. "I thought he was over that kind of girl."

            Oh, boy. "Matt wants a girl who doesn’t get his jokes, but laughs anyway. An easy girl.”

            "Then why do they all want him? If he likes easy girls, then all you have to do is be easy. Doesn't that make him even easier?"

            "Yes," I answer hesitantly, recognizing she just turned it into a scientific formula.

            "It's like they only see his hair and his clothes.” There's a level of frustration in her voice that I don't hear often. “ _I_ get his jokes, and I’m not looking at his hair or what he’s wearing, I’m looking at _him_ , at his _qualities_."

            "Of course you are. You always see the good aspects of people." Though you ignore the rest. I glance at a security guard to see if he noticed the guys hitting each other. "I need something deep-fried and coated in chocolate, how about you?"

            "I'm dieting."

            Dieting? She looks fine. "Then how about a candy apple? I'll eat salads with you for the next three days, I promise."

            "I saw you take down a whole chicken last night, if I made you eat only salads you'd faint."

            _"Only_ salads? That’s not what I agreed to."

            She chuckles and bites her lip as Matt does something typical.

            "Cheesecake," I blurt, seeing an ad for a restaurant within the mall. "Chocolate-covered cheesecake."

            Madge groans. "Stop talking about junk food."

            "Matt is junk food. Matt is the chocolate-covered, deep-fried, heart-stopping cheesecake you'll have to run a marathon to burn off." I stand between her and him. "Candy apples are safer, get a candy apple with me."

            "Oh," she waves her hand at me like I'm a nuisance pet, "go enjoy your candy apple, I want cheesecake."

            "Yes," Matt points at Madge right at that moment, "cheesecake. We're getting some."

            Vince is laughing at whatever he and Matt were up to a second ago, and comes over for a big hug. "You look cranky, cutie."

            I wait for him to finish hugging. "Madge is set on Matt."

            "Oh, boy." He puts an arm around my shoulder as we all start heading to the restaurant. "We'll have to start calling them M&M."

            _"No, we will not."_

Chuckling, he kisses my cheek. "Whatever you say, boss."

            A roar goes up as the Solo cup wobbles over the edge of the table and bounces across the linoleum. I cover my ears as Matt’s victory bellow soars above the fervor, a note louder than it should be. Vince holds his beer aloft, cheering as well even though he was hardly paying attention. Madge leans over to me with a curious look. “I don’t get it, what were the rules again?”

            “Doesn’t matter, they’re all drunk anyway,” I say loudly. “Basically, beer parties are governed by one’s ability to throw a tiny rubber ball at a plastic cup without appearing entirely intoxicated, while actually being infinitely drunker than a hearty Bostonian. Without that principle, you’d have anarchy- Oh, c'mon, do you have to write down everything I say?"

            She searches her bag frantically for a pen and paper. “You speak like the weirdest person I know.”

            “That’s cause I _am_ the weirdest person you know.” I look at her bag, unwilling to believe she actually brought writing utensils to a party. “Honestly, if you find another one, tell me because we’re probably related.”

            “Slow down,” her fingers squeeze the pen as she scribbles onto a tiny notepad, “I can only write so fast.”

            Matt struts up to us, arms outstretched. “Who da’ man?”

            “Good god,” I mutter into my cup. “This is the last party I go to with you.”

            “I’ll believe that when I see it,” he says, hooking an arm around my neck. “Dance with me.”

            Someone actually had the forethought to move all the furniture out of a living room fortuitously installed with surround sound. “You sure I won’t embarrass you?”

            “Nah, you make me look cool.”

            “Well, as long as you look cool,” I say, handing my soda to Vince. “Thoughts, boyfriend?”

            He takes a drink. “Go easy on him.”

            As soon as we start dancing a whoop goes up, and you don’t have to be an empath to feel the pride emanating off Matt. I don’t know what good dancing looks like from one place to another, but I get it. It combines the high of running with the flow of fighting, and it’s one of the few places where I feel perfectly safe.

            We take a breather, and I’m ready to go back out when Matt extends the offer to Madge instead.

            “Oh no,” she shakes her head grimly, “I can’t dance. I wouldn’t even try.”

            “None of them can dance either,” he shrugs with an endearing smile. “You’ll blend in perfectly.”

            Vince nudges her, and Madge laughs nervously as she leaves her nook beside the fireplace and follows Matt. Vince arches a brow at me, and pops another soda. “Why aren't you going back out?"

            I shake my head. “We shouldn’t have introduced them. Matt can’t take care of another person and Madge needs to be taken care of.”

            Vince contemplates me. “Why do you like Madge?”

            “I- Why wouldn’t I like her?”

            “I mean, why _her?"_ He stands between me and the rest of the room. "You said you don’t get along with other women, so why Madge?”

            I hear another beer game starting in the kitchen as the beat tries to tug me onto the dance floor. Vince moves a stray hair out of my face.

            “She’s sweet. She’s…she’s what I want to be.”

            Vince raises his head knowingly.

            “I want to be blindly happy with perfect parents and- and live in the same home my whole life, and have novels as my wildest escape from the monotony of suburbia.” I want to cross my arms, but it’s hot in here, so I put my hands in my back pockets instead. “She’s a beautiful, kind, intelligent person who’s never had to experience anything more tragic than losing a pet. Her life is so blissfully normal it hurts.”

            Vince looks me in the eye, smiling in that irritating way like he knows something I don’t. “But you don’t like the part of her that likes Matt.”

            “She should be smarter than that, I mean c’mon. There’s a neon sign over his head saying ‘I’m cute, but I’m a giant problem once you start dating me.’" I nod at him over Vince's shoulder. "Look at him, he drives us nuts just as a friend.”

            “Okay, but Madge can’t see all that. She can’t be smarter than that because her life hasn’t trained her to be. However, she’s not normal. She can heal people, and because of that she traveled half-way across the continent to go to a school with other unique people. She’s a dreamer who’s been exposed to New York City and a dork with too much mousse in his hair, and now she can’t ever go back to that normal life you think she had. She can’t see the world the same as you, and you can’t see the world the same as her.”

            I growl to let off steam. “The world is daisies to her. One time a bum stepped off a bus- a city bus, Vince, not the Bee-Line- and was staggering away _when she complimented his t-shirt._ Now, he was okay, but you can’t just do that to strange guys who clearly don’t have it all together when you’re a cute little eighteen-year-old who still doesn’t know Morningside from Midtown. That girl is going to get kidnapped if she keeps flashing her innocence all over the place.”

            Vince leans his head back to look just above mine. “But her innocence is what you admire. If she knew better she wouldn’t be innocent.” He pecks me on the cheek. “But I get what you’re saying, I felt that way about Matt when I first met him. Guy had everything he could ever want, but he was using it to con girls and play tacky music. It drove me up a wall.”

            “Right. Bad idea for Madge to date him."

            He sighs and hooks his thumbs into my belt loops. “Yes, but one of them is going to Illinois at the end of the summer, and the other back to England.”

            I take my cup from the mantel, find it empty, and put it back. “Distance has nothing to do with it. You and I didn’t happen until after you moved to California.”

            “No, I think that’s just us. Hold still.” His lips brush over my throat, up to my chin where he smiles. “Did that tickle?”

            “You know I’m not ticklish.”

            He leaves a loud kiss on my neck and I laugh, pressing my cheek to my shoulder.

            “How about now?” he asks, looking at me warmly.

            Leaning forward to kiss him, I run my fingers up his shirt. He twitches and giggles, stomach muscles tightening. “Stop that.”

            My mind mingles with his, and he shivers for a different reason. He grips the hem of my jeans as his lips search for mine, but I’ve turned my head away.

            "Hey, middle-schoolers," Matt calls. "Get a room.”

            Vince leans his head down to my ear. “Do you want to find a room, or do you want to dance with me instead?”

            I imagine pressing my bare stomach against his in a stranger’s bed.

            The music is madness. More cheering, and this time I let it go straight to my head as dubstep rips my hearing to shreds. There are no lyrics, just a jubilant rush of noise. My walls collapse in a billowy demolition and every mind in the room yawns wide open.

            I'm laughing when I realize I've been dancing too long. Madge and another girl are balancing potato chips on their noses, giggling girlishly as Matt judges with a bag of additional chips at the ready. Vince is deep in conversation with a young man who is stoned out of his mind. His confusion combined with the noisy, disjointed thoughts of the revelers around me is oddly comforting.

            Vince hands me his cold beer when I lean against him, then lean away again. The room is muggy because more money was put into the sound system than the air conditioning. I drink half the beer, laugh with the pothead about something only a pothead would find funny, and smooth out Vincent's hair, damp with sweat.

            "Hey," he happens to look at me out of the corner of his eye, "are you alright?"

            I raise an eyebrow, hoping he doesn't ask for his beer back because I'm holding it between my thighs and it's very comfortable there.

            With his thumb he wipes something off my cheek. "You know you're crying, right?"

            Now I wipe both my eyes, see that he's right, and laugh. "I'm very out-of-it right now."

            He looks at me wide-eyed, the corners of his mouth having trouble deciding whether to smile or frown. "You look beautiful right now."

            "While I'm crying?"

            "No, you look...You look happy."

            The burst in telepathy I had while dancing has lost some of its intensity. The room softens, the heat lulls, and I press my face to his shoulder. He pulls the loose band out of my hair, and runs his fingers through it, airing it out. "Tonight, when we get home, I'm going to kiss you like crazy."

            The hairs on the back of my neck rise as he tells me all the ways he'll kiss me, his fingers running over my scalp in a pleasing way. There's laughter in the room, light-hearted and pleasant to hear. The stoner is lying on the couch smiling to himself, and the music has slowed to something melancholy and romantic. "If you're happy then I'm happy."

             The following kiss tells me that was the right response.

 

            Thunder causes the restaurant to tremble and the voices of the patrons to rise. Vince rubs ketchup out of his jacket with a wet paper napkin while Madge observes carefully. “Thank you for your bravery, Vinny.”

            He chuckles shyly. “Welcome.”

            I smack Matt in the side. “I told you in high school to quit with the ketchup grenades.”

            Matt points at Vince. “Juvie here taught me how to make them.”

            “And you make them wrong,” Vince puts out his hands in disbelief. Matt scoffs and thunder rumbles again.

            “Oh no,” Madge searches her purse for her phone, “when is the movie?”

            We all scramble for our phones.

            “Five minutes,” Matt answers with a wild look.

            “We can make it if we run,” says Vince, pulling his hood up and zipping tight.

I nod at Madge. “You want to run?”

            Pursing her lips, Madge grips her umbrella in both hands. 

The door jingles in alarm as Matt and I burst out onto the sidewalk, tripping over each other and laughing. The pavement is already slick with rain as taxi cabs splash small tidal waves onto the curb.

            _“My friends are in the bathroom getting higher than the Empire State,”_ Matt blares as he runs, playing music for the first time in a long time. _“My lover, she’s waiting for me just across the bar...”_

I keep looking over my shoulder to make sure Vince and Madge are keeping up, neon lights shining off her raincoat and boots. I skid to a stop at a no-crossing sign, but Matt looks both ways, smacks me on the arm, and tears across anyway. Recklessly, I follow.

            Drenched and breathless, the four of us clomp up to the ticket booth, half laughing, half gasping. We’re eight minutes late, other patrons cursing us as we step on toes and over toddlers to get to our seats, stinky, wet, and noisy. Just as I sit down, my phone goes off.

 _“Sorry,_ sorry.” I dig it out of my soggy pocket to turn it off. Scott.

            Vince looks over my shoulder. “What, _now?”_

            “No, no. It’s not a mission.” I text back quickly before turning the sound off. “He was just asking a question.”

            By the end of the comedy our stomachs ache from laughing so often. Madge has us stay during the credits because she wants to know the name of the actor of a minor character. Matt and Vince pronounce aloud all the weirdest names they can find while I watch the agitated ushers standing in the wings, eager to close up for the night.

            The rain stopped, but now the street is nearly as humid as the stuffy theater we were just in. We peel out of raincoats and roll up sleeves, then hit the closest drink joint for smoothies and iced coffees before heading back to Matt’s car.

            We’re walking down a familiar street when I stop in front of what was once an empty lot. “What the hell is that?”

            The crew stops too.

            “Aw crap,” Vince looks around the street, “and there’s a new coffee shop over there too.”

            “What’s wrong with a park?” whispers Madge to me.

            Matt crosses his arms. “About time. This place was so grungy before. I kept waiting for another CBGB to open or something.”

            “I don’t care that it’s a park,” Vince looks at the lot like it’s a grave, “but they’re going to do that to the whole street.”

            “This street was hit hard in the attack,” I add. “Some investor must’ve gotten his hands on it while it was weak.”

            “I really don’t see why everyone always makes such a big fit about gentrification,” says Matt. “I mean, other than the swarms of hipsters it brings, isn’t a better neighborhood what people want?”

            “They’re not the ones who get the upgrades,” Vince cuts him off. “They get their neighborhood that they grew up in remodeled by out-of-towners looking for a profit, and then their rent gets spiked to get them out so wealthier people can move in.”

            “But why live in a crappy neighborhood to begin with?” Matt asks. “Why not just move somewhere nicer?”

            “Why can’t it be improved while they’re in it instead of having them make way for yuppie bastards?” Vince says heatedly.

            I take him by the arm. _Relax, he’s a moron, just relax._

            “It’s a nice park,” comments Madge finally, sipping her smoothie. “Somebody will get to enjoy it either way.”

            Vince clenches his jaw, and I squeeze his arm. Matt huffs with satisfaction, feeling affirmed.

            "What Vince means is that some people get the benefits at the expense of others. They tear down the neighborhood while people are living in it just so those more powerful can move in." I hesitate before saying, "Like the Chitauri tried to do to us."

            It's not a perfect analogy, but these three don't know that. The melodrama has the intended effect on Madge, who sobers instantly.

            “You had to bring that up,” Matt grumbles.

            I pinch him and he bats my hand away as he begins walking again. Madge catches up to him, and I pull gently on Vince’s arm.

            “C’mon.” Rub a hand over his back. “It’s just one neighborhood. Let’s go home. C’mon.”

            He runs his tongue over his teeth, giving the café one last baleful look as I turn him around and lead us back to the car.

            It’s boozy out on the lawn in the sun with nothing to do. Matt has been crashing at Xavier’s all summer, uselessly taking up space. Madge is in a tank top and shorts, which is a first for her, and we can all see her freckly shoulders.

            “Don’t worry Maggie.” Vince says, watching spent rainclouds wander away. “No one can be in medical school as long as Mattie’s been in- What are you studying? Business? Hook-ups?”

            Matt doesn’t look at Vince when he backhands him, and Vince giggles and curls up in my lap where he’s been resting his head.

            “What the idiot is trying to say is, you’ll get sick of the first thing you started to do in college, and start doing something else, causing you to be there far longer than you intended to be.”

            Vince looks up at me. “He has some kind of degree by now, right?”

            I shrug. “Madge, are you going to take any writing classes in college?”

            We’ve kept her outdoors so often this summer I can no longer tell apart her blushing from her sunburn. “Maybe. I think I saw a novel-writing course in their catalog, but I need to focus on my degree requirements. I’ll just write in my spare time.”

            The two guys laugh quietly.

            “You’re going into medical school, Maggie.” Matt lies back in the grass. “You’ll have even less spare time than any of us. I don’t think it’ll even exist.”

            “What does Madge write?” Vince asks her.

            She looks at her bare toes. “Stuff. Poetry. Other stuff.”

            “What does _Vince_ do?” Matt asks. “Other than taming dragons.”

            I give him a look as Vince ponders his answer answer. “Vince is an architectural designer. An awesome one. And the dragon isn’t tame, jackass, so watch yourself.”

            I kiss him on the forehead.

            “Where would you want to design for, Vinny?” Madge asks, resting her chin on her fists. “London, Paris, Madrid?”

            Vince laughs softly. “No, I’ll be staying here. They’ll be rebuilding Manhattan for another decade, they’ll need everybody they can get.”

            I play with his hair. “We’ll get to Madrid someday, Vin.”

            “You guys are just going to stay here?” Matt’s brow is furrowed. “There’re a billion other places, but you want to stay right here?”

            “Well, I’ve already transferred here. NYU-Poly opened up some new spots for engineering majors after the attack. Besides, this is a sweet setup.” Vince grins up at me. “We can’t all own investment companies.”

            “Like hell I’m going into financing,” Matt utters vehemently.

            “Then what are you going to do?” asks Madge, leaning over her knees and holding onto her shoelaces. “What do you _want_ to do?”

            “I’m gonna own a record company.” Matt rises onto his elbows. “I’ve already looked into it all. Not sure where to start it yet, LA or New York, but it’s gonna happen.”

            “Why not in Memphis?” Vince jokes. “You love country music.”

            Matt throws grass at him and Madge giggles.

            “Are you still writing music?” I ask.

            Matt raises a noncommittal eyebrow. “It’s more of a hobby. My lyrics are terrible.”

            “I didn’t know you wrote,” says Madge, keenly interested now. “Can you sing some for us?”

            When Matt grimaces I know why. “The words are already embarrassing enough let alone sung in my voice.”

            “Then play something, Mattie,” I say. “We love hearing you play.”

            Lying back again, Matt tucks his hands under his head. “Any requests?

            When no one responds he picks something and starts playing. It’s one of his usual upbeat pop songs, but with a melancholic undertone, the lyricist living in the moment while fretting over the future. This is the Matt I’ve been needing to hear, the one he puts into music. I look at Madge, who’s only heard his renditions once or twice, and wonder if she can hear him too.

Vince sighs in my lap, and I brush my thumb over his cheek. The breeze smells like more rain, and as every tree and bush rustles in its wake, I know with a certainty that I’ve never lived a moment more satisfying. 

 


	58. Chapter 58

            Rain drizzles on the roof of the barn. They’d been studying for his midterms when she began leaving light kisses down the side of his face. From his standpoint, one activity was more worthy of attention than the other. In the dimming light, with her running her hands up his arms, he concludes that he loves her opposites; the contrast of her firm jaw and sharp chin placed upon an elegant neck. The way she occasionally becomes aware of her hips despite a body made of hard lines and few curves. Her eyes remind him of a dense forest, but when she laughs those dangerous woods become inviting.

            The rain starts to fall a little heavier. He pauses. “Hey, are you-”

            “I’m fine,” she says.

            “You’re shaking.” 

            He can feel her smile against his lips and has to return it. The covers get rumpled, the room darker, her skin hotter. A shirt falls to the floor and another follows.

            “I love you,” she murmurs into his ear as he kisses her neck.

            He shivers as her fingers ghost up his back, and slides a hand around her waist. She buries her face in his neck, letting him move her under the covers, but holding on all the while as though she’s afraid he’ll be dragged away. 

            “Hold on,” she lets go and scrambles off the bed, “I’ll be back.”

            The bathroom door locks and he’s left sitting there, wondering what went wrong this time. The fan is turned on, but he knows she’s just sitting on the edge of the tub keeping silent.

            “A-baby?” he calls. “Are you alright?”

            She doesn’t reply. The fan turns off and the door opens. He gets up, knowing she’s going to linger there by the door if he doesn’t. “What’s wrong?”

            Her eyes flick from one part of him to another. “I don’t remember. Maybe it’s just…something old. Sorry, that didn’t make sense.”

            Vince studies her eyes now that they’ve stopped moving. “You got claustrophobic and felt like someone was going to hurt you.”

            She looks up quickly. “I don’t think you’d hurt me. But, yes.”

            He sets his jaw. He equates that feeling with his dad. “Was it the scientists?”

            Her pupils widen slightly, the forest opening to let a monster out, but she holds the memory back from him.

           

* * *

 

            Before dawn the rain subsides just as Xavier calls to me in my sleep. I pull on some shoes and the school jacket before stepping out into the barn. Knocking at the door to the study, I’m hardly surprised when Storm opens. This isn’t the first team meeting that’s been held at 3am. Picking a comfy couch, I yawn and pull a throw pillow into my lap where I close my eyes and wait.

            A childhood of training to be on constant alert means little escapes my notice. Hank is seated in a prime spot, polishing and re-polishing his glasses while making those small sounds he does when he’s concerned. Storm is calm and collected as usual, but she too senses Hank’s anxiety. Xavier appears to be poring over lab results, no doubt brought to him by Hank.

            When everyone is assembled, Xavier takes a deep breath.

            “Dr. McCoy, as many of you know, has been taking the time to break down the anti-venom samples seized from Nemanic’s lab several months ago. However, he’s brought it to my attention that those were not the only samples gained from that mission.”

            Emma gives a sarcastic hum, and looks at me across the room. "Sticky-fingers helped herself."

            I yawn at full measure, reminding her I have teeth.

            “Yes,” Hank says, “thankfully, Ace here brought us back the entire centrifuge.”

            I raise an eyebrow at Emma, but she’s conveniently looking the other away. I prop my socked feet up on the coffee table, yawning again. “Why, what else was in it?”

            Hank looks around at us, stumbling over his words. “I can’t begin to- The properties of the formula are-”

            "Hank," Logan snaps, "tell us what it is already."

            “In layman’s terms,” Hank eyes him, “it’s an antidote. An antidote for mutation.”

            The room falls morbidly silent. I find myself first affronted, then intrigued, then affronted again by the existence of such a formula.

            “How is that possible?” queries Jean immediately. “How did you deduce that?”

            “It must be temporary,” adds Scott. “Mutation is genetic, how can it possibly-”

            “So, what, it’s some kind of _cure?_ ” Logan butts in. “That doesn’t make sense.”

            Jean and Scott essentially just said that, Logan. Hank, who was clearly about to explain in detail before Logan interrupted the first time, is now in irritation trying to get his point across in the middle of the ensuing argument. Tempers flare, and though Storm continues to ask the methodical questions, her emotions do not stand out in this well of outrage. Emma keeps her comments to a sarcastic few, but she too is compensating. Meanwhile I keep the appearance of being asleep while soaking in every word.

            Then something occurs to me and I open my eyes. “Isn’t it possible-”

            They continue talking over me. I wait for a lull, and when one doesn’t come I lean forward and grab Hank’s attention. “If it’s a sample, then isn’t it likely samples have been sent to other labs as well?”

            He nods earnestly. “Highly likely. If we track it back to the source, we can find out who else it was sent to and for what purpose.”

            I look at Xavier, who’s trying to listen while simultaneously handling the escalating argument between Logan and Scott.

            “Kitty or I could get that info,” I say. “Also, if you had another chance at Nemanic’s lab-”

            Hank shakes his head. “Too risky. We already caused trouble there thanks to the Brotherhood. If we go back we’ll only push our luck with Nemanic’s law firm.”

            “Do you think they knew?” Piotr asks, rubbing his eye. “The Brotherhood?”

            “Then just send me or Kitty.” I say to Hank. “We need to know where else this was sent.”

            “And then what?” Storm asks, listening in. “Break into those locations and steal from them?”

            True, last time we had express permission. “We’d be able to keep an eye on all fronts, wouldn’t we? Target trouble as soon as it starts? We’re already late to the game, might as well find out who else is playing.”

            “Nemanic clearly is,” Emma says over the arguing. “Though if he didn’t want us to find out, he shouldn’t have put it next to the anti-venom. That’s what we get for doing favors.”

            At that point mine and a few others’ heads turn as a young nocturnal student clears her throat outside the study door.

            “We mustn’t speak of this to the students just yet.” Xavier gives us all a grave look. “The information discussed here tonight should not leave this room. Until Hank has had more time to research this, we cannot know for certain the purpose of the formula.”

            Hank nods in solemn agreement, both hands clasped in front of him.

            “Scott,” Xavier’s voice is low and severe, “we may need a reconnaissance mission to the laboratory once more. I’ll see if there’s an easier route- like Hank says there’s no need risking our connections- but until then, prepare for a return trip.”

            Scott nods twice then looks at the rest of us to make sure we understood.

            I should feel anxious in this situation. At the same time, if anxiety was a person and walked up to me right now, I’d slap it in its sorry face. That would be extremely satisfying. Then it would follow me through the house, down the stairs, and out into the dark yard, whispering the whole way that someone somewhere wants to take my abilities away. They might be around the corner, or in the woods, they might even be waiting for me in one of the horse stalls. And that’s how standing up to anxiety one minute means seven minutes later I’m holding my head in my hands as Vince tries to talk me down.

            “S’okay, baby,” his sleepy voice slurs. “Sweetheart, you’re safe here, I promise. I’m right here.”

            He cups a hand under my left breast, and I don’t realize what he’s doing until his fingers spread out and press into my ribs. The pressure is strangely calming. His breath is warm against my neck as his whispers combat the things my head is telling me. I press down on his hand, pushing on my ribs too, and take several long breaths. Two fingers from his other hand press to my neck as he counts my pulse.

            “You’re doing great, baby. Breathe again, alright, together.”

            We breathe in synchrony until the terror fades to a faint ache. Gradually, he relaxes his hand on my ribs.

                       

            Kitty tosses another candy bar to me. “This still doesn’t feel right.”

            I strip the wrapper off quickly and shove it in my pocket. “Then don’t eat them yourself.” With a Hershey’s bar sticking out of one side of my mouth, I type away at the lines of code, making a mess I’ll undo later. “Found anyone else?”

            Even with the candy bar gargling my speech, Kitty’s hair sways back and forth over her collar as she shakes her head. “No one definitive.”

            The chocolate makes a beautiful snapping sound as I break it in half. “I’m going to get chocolate all over the keyboard.”

            “What happened to stealth, Ace?” she asks drily. “I thought you said you were ‘a master’ at this.”

            “You’ve seen the security here, right? And there are already six wrappers in the trashcan, so I think the IT guys have cocoa fingers of their own.”

            With a sigh, Kitty clicks hard on the mouse and a new set of emails shows up on my screen. “Three are mentioned here. Doesn’t mean they received samples.”

            I look up the addresses for each of the new companies she’s sent me. “Kat, some of these aren’t even labs, they’re just-”

            She gives me a second to finish. “They’re just what?”

            “Well, one of them is listed as a mine...”

            When I don’t elaborate, Kitty’s chair swivels and she comes to look over my shoulder. “Why would they send blood samples to a mine? Ace?”

            I run an image search quickly. It’s the silver mine Coulson had me snoop. Fantastic.

            Kitty sighs in frustration as we look at the images. “Still wondering what we’re looking at.”

            I rub a headache out of my temples. “Hand me your comm., I need a word with Scott.”

           

            “So SHIELD already knows.”

            “I didn’t say that.”

            “I thought I warned you against doing favors for them,” Xavier predictably admonishes. “Now you’re involved.”

            Technically I’d promised the agents never to tell anybody I’d been sent to the mine, but they should’ve known my promises are cheap. Plus, that favor was for dearly departed Coulson, so it doesn’t count anymore. “Professor, it was just an underground office with cubicles and filing cabinets. Maybe they have an underground lab too that SHIELD doesn’t know about or didn’t tell me about. None of that means SHIELD has any knowledge of this antidote.”

            “Why does it sound like you’re defending them?” Scott asks.

            “Really? Because I thought jumping to conclusions was Logan’s shtick.”

            He gives me a sardonic grin.

            “Look,” I turn back to Xavier, “all we know for sure is that this serum so far has turned up in some shady places. I know this mine, let me see what they’re doing with it, or let me take Hank. We’ll be careful.”

            Xavier presses the tips of his fingers together while closing his eyes to think. In the meantime, Scott clears his throat. “How many other labs were on this email chain?”

            “Wasn’t a chain, they were sent individually.”

            “How many?”

            “Kitty had maybe eight last I checked, but she wasn’t finished rooting out all the conversations.”

            “We have to stop this,” Xavier states. He looks up at me, the lines in his face deeper than they’ve been. “Before they get to the trial stage.”

            Grave, I nod to show I understand.

            “Let Ace and Hank go to this mine.” He turns his attention on Scott. “You organize the rest of your team as you do best and scout these other locations as Kitty finds them.” Then he sighs in an exhausted way, and Scott and I both watch him with concern.

            “We’re very limited in what we can actually do here,” Xavier says. “Had we known about this sooner...”

            Scott clenches his jaw. “We’ll get it under control, Professor. I’ll see that it gets done.”

            For a brief moment I admire Scott’s respect for Xavier. It was a respect common among my previous associates and their mentors. Unfortunately, as it did then, it makes me feel like the odd one out. “Let me know where I’m needed.”

            Leaving the study, I work to recall the characteristics of the room at the mine. It had been there for at least a few decades based on how worn the doors and carpet were. What had it been for all this time? Was SHIELD actually interested in it, or just testing me?

            “Hey,” our student in charge of the mailroom waves me down, “did you get a computer or something?”

            Naturally, my first reaction is suspicion until he points out a stack of boxes emblazoned with the _Stark Industries_ logo. Oh, right.

            Making a trip back up the stairs, I toss the boxes onto Vince’s bedspread.

            “Whatcha get, whatcha get?” He swivels his chair away from the desk.

            I put a hand out. “Box cutter.”

            He digs around in a desk drawer, hisses as he manages to prick himself on the blade, and hands it to me with his other hand while sucking his finger. “The lengths I go to for you.”

            “Sorry, your finger’s in your mouth I can’t tell what you’re saying.” I smile when he pinches me, and open the biggest box first.

            “Wow,” he climbs onto the bed to get a better look, “wow, that’s a thing. What is that?”

            I pull the dully shining fabric from the box. “Damn, Stark.”

            Holding it out, I note the tailored contours and am relieved it doesn’t look too immodest. Pausing with the suit in midair, I look at Vince.

            He grins. "Do you want to try it on?"

            “Here?"

            Smirking, he covers his eyes. "I have seen parts of you already."

            I laugh and pull his hand away. "Stop that, it's weird."

            Still smiling he sits quietly while I undress, raising his eyebrows every time I look over. It fits tight, but the fabric is breathable at the joints- much like that of our suits here, a relative of Kevlar only less restrictive. Adjustable too, so that the pants, torso, and sleeve can be added or removed as need be.

            “There’s a jacket in here too,” says Vince.

            “It has the ‘A’ logo on it.” I go into his bathroom to see myself. “Does the logo come off?”

            “Looks like it’s sealed on.”

            I come back out and slice open the other boxes carrying the boots, gloves, and mask which I pull it on.

            “Don’t get mad,” Vince starts, “but you look like Jason from _Friday the 13th_.”

            I fiddle with it. “It’s got armor in the back for when I hit my head.”

            “It’s still awesome, I mean, he did a good job.” Vince realigns it. “You’d have to stuff your hair in it somehow.”

            With a huff I peel the mask off delicately. “It’s too tight. He must’ve thought I’d be bald when I wore it.”

            Vince rubs his unshaven chin. “It’ll be alright if people see your face. Maybe you can shape-shift or something, so it’s not your face they’re seeing.”

            I try on the gloves, fingerless and flexible like I asked. “I can’t tell you how thankful I am that there’s no pink glitter in here.”

            “He knows not to go _that_ far.”

            “Stark has little fear of me.” I take the gloves off and put them back. “He plays along, but that guy is not easily intimidated.”

            Vince looks like he’s holding back a smile. “Hey, he never replied to my thank you letter for that scholarship."

            "He gets lots of letters he never reads.” I nod at his face. “What is this by the way? Growing a beard?”

            “Maybe.” He rubs his chin again. “What do you think?”

            “You have the face for it, very Italian.”

            “Ugh. If anything I’d like to look less Italian.”

            I lean over and kiss him. “You are fantastic, Vinny.”    

            His smile barely hides the blush. “You know I can’t actually take a compliment, right?”

            “You’re damn sexy.”

            “Stop that.”

            I peel the suit off one piece at a time, pull my jeans back on, and climb into bed. Vince starts kissing without a second thought, and I shiver like before. Besides his lips there are bare arms wound around me, and fingertips pressing into my skin. Curse the fifteen-year-old who thought she could copy an empath.

            I roll onto my back to catch my breath. “You’re crazy.”

            There’s a small laugh as he moves over me. “I don’t think you realize just how long I've been in love with you.” He presses his lips to the base of my throat. “Even if I did show it badly.”

            Shivering as he runs a finger up my side, I wish he’d be less careful. “Then show it.”

            The breath of his sigh is soft against my shoulder. He kisses my neck tenderly and lowers his body in such a way that only half of it rests on me.

“Alright, stop.”

            Confused, he only backs off when I start to sit up.

            “Why don’t you want this?” I ask.

            “I do.”

            “Then what’s stopping you?”

            He opens his mouth and closes it again. _Not yet._

            “It’s been _months_ since you said ‘not yet’ the first time.” Is this because I walked out last time? “If you want to do this, tell me. If you want to wait until we’re married, tell me and I’ll wait. But sitting here not knowing what needs to happen is-”

            “Ace, _I want to._ I just…my first time was…not good.” His cheeks turn red and he grimaces. “See, I don’t want to talk about it with you.”

            “Then who, if not me? Who else but me is this relevant to? At some point I’m going to have to know, right?”

            He bites his lip and looks at the floor.

            “Right? Is there someone else you feel comfortable enough to talk about this with?”

            “No,” he replies, distinctly making eye contact, “there’s nobody.”

            “Then please,” I put my hand on his knee, holding him in place, “tell me what you need.”

            He sighs heavily. “She went farther than I wanted to too soon and it ended badly. I don’t want that to happen with you too, especially after you got nervous the other night.”

            “Okay.” I brush the back of my hand over his cheek. “Thank you for telling me. I think you know I wouldn’t jump you, though. C’mere.”

            Pushing boxes off the bed, we lay down again and I pull him into my arms. Vince runs his hands up my body- emotion trailing over my skin. I run my hand through his hair, enjoying the way it falls right back into place.

            “Sometimes I feel like you know more about me than I know about you.”

            He closes his eyes with a small smile. “What do you know?”

            I rub my thumb over his eyebrow. “You’re passionate, sometimes to your own detriment. You don’t trust easily so it was a struggle being your friend early on, but it seems like you made friends with Sukraj and Kirsten right away.”

            He runs his tongue over his teeth, looking back and forth between my eyes. There’s that distrust I just mentioned. We need to grow out of these private walls.

            “I shouldn’t have looked up to John like I did,” he says. “He and the rest of them made me do a lot of nasty shit. Some of it I can look back on and laugh, but most of it makes me want to punch myself in the face. If you think I came out of it calmer, I was still a creep when I ran away. It was being chased through the West Side over to Brownsville that scared the crap out of me.”

            “How did you end up in that part of town? I was surprised you-”

            “They hedged me in.” He swallows. “They knew which parts of town I was familiar with, so they kept pushing me into different places, probably hoping a drug dealer would take me out before they had to. They just wanted me away from Xavier’s, but didn’t expect I’d call home.”

            “I wish you’d called sooner.” I tuck my hand under my pillow. “You called Matt because you knew he wouldn’t be mad at you, but I wish you’d called Xavier’s.”

            “You know why I didn’t, I didn’t think anyone would come.”

            “We came. Xavier would’ve done the same for John if he’d thought he was sincere.”

            Vince laughs shortly. “I started spilling my guts before Xavier could interrogate me. I couldn’t get myself kicked out of here again. I’d be dead as soon as I left the front gate.”

            I kiss him on the forehead. “Dummy. I would’ve left with you.”

            “That just makes you the dummy. You wouldn’t have had anywhere to go either.”

            Yawning, I look at the darkness outside and pull the covers down. “I least I wouldn’t have been alone this time.”

            We tuck ourselves in and his hand slides over my waist, pulling me to him just to hold. “Tell me about the times you’ve been alone, so I can wish I’d been with you.”

            “Where should I start?”

            “The last time,” he says against the curve of the pillow.

            Carefully, I find his ear and study the shape of it with my fingers. “Right after you left. Scott and Jean were getting married, and Logan didn’t want to stick around for the wedding.”

            I tell him how I treated Logan, and how I met Stark because Vince had liked him. I talk about how it’s always two steps forward, one step back with Tony and his flaws. I tell him that while I didn’t intend to commit suicide when I left for Canada, I definitely hadn’t planned on coming back.

            I stroke the hair behind his ear, hoping I’m not lulling him to sleep with my story. His shoulders rise and fall faintly. “Now, tell me about the first time.”

            I move closer, pressing my forehead to his, letting him see this memory. “I was little, very little. It was raining. That’s all I remember.”

            Vince sighs through his nose. “Clint didn’t tell her where you live, but did he tell you where she lives?”

            “I wouldn’t be surprised if they had her move and change her name.” I stroke his jaw with my thumb for considering payback. “What about your parents, do you know where they are?”

            He snorts. “Dad got hit by a car and mom’s liver’s about to give.”

            I let that charming fantasy linger for a second. “You ever wonder what happened in their lives to make them into the people they became? Like, no one respected your dad as a kid, so he became a bully? Or something happened to your mom that made her want to drink it away and hope this guy wouldn’t be as bad as the last?”

            “Don’t care,” he mutters. “You don’t pity the drowning man who’s dragging you down, you just try to get away.”

            “You pity him once you’re away though.” I close my eyes, but try to keep from falling asleep. “Like you pitying John.”

            He’s quiet for a moment. “Do you pity your parents?”

            “No,” I answer firmly.  

            “Okay then.” He turns onto his back and pats my arm. Moving over, I lie down on top of him and leave a kiss on his collar bone.

            "You okay?" he asks, brushing a hand through my hair.

            "Yeah.” Whenever he asks that I call to mind all the things that might upset me. "The team is going to be busy for a while. I might not be at home that often.”

            “That’s fine,” he says sleepily. “Come see me when you’ve got the time.”

            We both take a deep breath, and he drapes an arm around me. Closing my eyes, I put into practice an old sensory exercise starting with which sense occurs to me first. Warmth, then, Vince’s heart beating beneath my own. The rise and fall of our bodies, the sound of air passing through our nostrils and blood through our veins. Finally, the thrumming of the rain and the smell of soap and clean skin as Vince must’ve showered recently.

            I look to see if he’s fallen asleep. His eyes are barely open, and this close up I can see he has several blond lashes. He turns his head slightly to look back at me. We don’t say anything, don’t move, just watch the other person living in the moment.

            _I could live like this forever_.

            He blinks slowly in agreement.


	59. Chapter 59

            The whoop and screech of the klaxons got tiring ages ago. I slam the flat of my hand against the trigger and they die down. “Everyone’s gone now, shut up.”

            Emma sighs in frustration. “Your mine turned out to be a bigger mess than it could’ve been.”

            I scowl. “Find Kat and Kurt. I’m going back to the room to make sure nothing got away.”

            She eyes me, a small smile curling at the corners of her mouth. “That’s a lovely suit. Stark certainly knows how to make a woman feel comfortable.”

             “Crap, Emma.” I cover my ears. “Just get them home before SHIELD arrests you.”

            The tail of her white cape flutters portentously around the corner.

            Unfriendly mutants were swarming the place when we got here, a heavily guarded room containing fridge after fridge of antidote samples. I checked to make sure they matched the one Hank trained me to recognize, then left to help Emma in the hallway, but she had guards and terrorists alike walking quietly away from the conflict zone.

            Picking my way over the hallway of broken glass- because no mission can go without somebody breaking glass- I sense with growing dread that there are two warm bodies in the sample room. As I approach I do my best to discern whether they are security personnel or Brotherhood.

            Four of the five refrigerators of antidote lie on their sides or leant against tables as though a vindictive earthquake occurred in this room only. I watch my footing as the contents of one fridge appear to have splattered across the floor. To my horror I see filled syringes as well, their container snapped open. Beside one of the fallen refrigerators, an unconscious guard lies still. Over in the opposite corner amongst a heap of paper towels rests an elderly mutant, blood trickling down his forehead, clearly caused by hitting the edge of the steel counter beside him.

            “What happened in here?” I ask, stepping around an unprotected syringe.

            The older man shudders slightly. “Violation.”

            This is why I don’t start up conversations with brethren. “Medical help will arrive momentarily.”

            Kneeling down, I check the pulse of the unconscious guard, and analyze the mess on the floor. Syringes lie strewn, but there are three partially empty. I avoid glancing at the man in the corner, but instead observe his helmet lying out of reach.

            The guard by my leg groans quietly, and I _lull_ him back to sleep. “You’ll kill him if I leave you both here, won’t you?”   

            The old man cringes as he adjusts his position against the wall. “He’d do the same to you as he did me if he were conscious. There are more of them out there, men like him, rooms like these. They’ll come after you. Today is only the beginning-”

            “You mistake me for someone who enjoys rhetoric.” How I’d hoped never to hear more dictatorial jargon. I tilt my head at the sound of armed men entering the lab. Whether it’s more guards or SHIELD finally asserting dominance, I need to get out of here. I look between the old man and the guard, debating which to remove and which to leave to the authorities.

            “There isn’t time…” The old man trails off, the wound to his head getting harder to fight.

            I don’t know how well his dose worked, if he’s actually powerless or just thinks he is, but I can’t let a handful of humans get slaughtered because I misjudged this fascist. I did tell Emma and the others to leave without me, right?

            “You have everything to lose here, dear.” He moves his foot, causing syringes to bump into each other delicately. “You can’t afford to linger.”

            I grind my teeth, listening as the units clear each empty room. _And if that isn’t SHIELD running towards us, Xavier will never forgive me for letting you die._

            I grab the three used syringes.

            “What are you doing?” he asks incredulously.

            “Cowpox.” I tug my sleeve down at the elbow where Tony put in an adjustable seam. “Saved the milkmaids.”

            _“Stop.”_ He reaches out his hand as he’s used to doing, but nothing happens.

            Find a good place in the vein, hesitate, then slide it in and press down- an illusion he falls for openmouthed. I grab the gun from the guard, check the magazine, then close it again.

            “You’re mad. That explains everything.”  

            Whether I’m mad or have everything to lose, he doesn’t resist me throwing his arm over my shoulder and lifting him to his feet. He points at the helmet on the floor.

            “Don’t get greedy,” I say, tucking the safely capped syringes into my leg pocket and shifting the gun to my other hand. “You’re just an old man now.”

            Kicking the door open, I push him out into the hallway.

            “I’m not killing anyone today,” I say as we head down the hall at a fast-walk. “So if bullets come around the corner and you get shot, I’ll still look good.”

            “Oh, you just carry a gun for show then? Or is it because you just sacrificed a gift anyone would kill for?”

            I’ve seen what you kill for. I glance over our shoulders for show as I listen to each unit throughout the laboratory. “She with you?”

            He glances up. “Who?”

            It isn’t until she turns the corner, blue from head-to-toe and naked as the day she was born, that he rights his slowing step. She doesn’t alter her pace as she sees us, but her ochre eyes flicker in my direction.

            “There’s an exit into the woods.” Her voice is deeper than I expected. I willingly exchange him to her arms, but she glares at me upon seeing his head wound.

            “Don’t speak to her, dear,” he says in a sober tone, “she’s no longer one of us.”

            “Neither are you.” I make sure he’s watching as I vanish into thin air.

 

            Hank flinches when I toss the syringes onto the steel tabletop. “It’s a dud.”

            Scott stands up straight, uncrossing his arms. “How do you know?”

            “Magneto was faking.”

            “Erik _was there?”_ Xavier asks. Under the fluorescent lights of the basement lab, all three men stare at me like I’ve dropped from the cosmos.

            “Yes.” I wash my arms and hands off in the sink, scrubbing with a plastic brush to make sure none of the chemical remains on me. “Oh, he didn’t have his helmet last I saw him. She might’ve gone back for it, but now’s your chance to see where he retreats to.”    

            With a frustrated sigh, Xavier maneuvers himself out of the room, headed for Cerebro. “I will need information in full when I return. Scott.”

            “You’re saying he was injected with those?” Scott begins immediately. “How do you know he was faking?”

            There are no paper towels in the dispenser, so I root around in the cupboard Hank points out until I find some. “I pretended to inject myself. Being injected demoralized him, but when he had a reason to attempt his ability, he realized he still had it and held back, feeling it would be better if he were the most powerful person in the room and not me. Does he not know I can read minds?”

            “Emma said there was a whole room full of it.” Scott waves a hand at the syringes on the table. “Why did you bring these with you?”

            “I thought Hank could mess with them.” Obviously. “It looked like the guard intentionally injected him with these three. He had a gun in his holster, but he didn’t try to kill Magneto, he tried to weaken him.” I rub my hands over my arms. “Also, we found a few guards shot dead, so it’s possible he’d already seen what Magneto can do with a bullet.”

            Scott leans against the edge of the table and looks over at Hank. “Maybe they’re decoys.”

            “Or maybe it doesn’t work,” I say.

            Hank shakes his head at me, removing the syringes to another location. “The properties of the formula had that propensity. I know what I’m looking at when I see it, Ace.”

            “No man-made miracle in a bottle can completely erase something encoded in our DNA,” I argue. “Science hasn't come that far."

            "Your Steve Rogers was chemically enhanced in a day.” Scott crosses his arms. “If you ask me, that sort of science already came and went.”

            "The men who made Steve Rogers into what he is today were prematurely murdered,” enlightens Hank. “They were geniuses with vision, that can't be recreated. Case in point Dr. Banner.”

            “I think Hulk’s proven his harmfulness,” Scott replies.

            “Scott, this antidote is snake oil.” I pull back my hair. “Do you still want to check the other locations?"

            With a sigh he looks again at Hank. “It was in syringes.”

            Hank clears his throat and raises his eyebrows. “There’s a chance this was a placebo for the control group, and the guard was misinformed.”

            “A placebo.” I say. “We, the Brotherhood, the people protecting the lab, and the SHIELD units that swarmed the place afterward were all excited over a placebo? You even taught me to identify it-”

            “He did say ‘chance’, Ace.”

            I roll my eyes, knowing how inappropriate that is. “I’m sorry. Let me know if there are any other false alarms we need to chase down.”

           

            The seatbelt doesn’t want to click as Vince fights with it. “See? Does this all the time.”

            I see Sukraj waving at us as he disappears up his family’s driveway, and I wave back. “I’m going to miss hearing you talk about him.”

            The seatbelt finally clicks. “We Skype sometimes. I told him I’d email him when we got home.”

            Beach air wafts through the open window as we drive away. "You sure he doesn’t need your car for longer?”

            “Nah, his uncle got him a new one,” he pats the dashboard, “and he knows I missed her.”

            After two hours we stop at a gas station to stretch our legs and trade places so he can rest. Another hour goes by and, tiring of his CD’s and everything on the radio, Vince turns off the noise and curls up. _You're very quiet tonight._

            I drop my guard.

            He watches my hands on the steering wheel. "You've been frustrated since that last mission."

            I pass a lagging Toyota in the wrong lane, and step on the gas.

            "Was it...bad?"

            "No, not like that.” I lick my lips and lean forward in the seat. "Lately all we've been doing is causing messes we didn't intend. We save people, but we also put them in danger, and it's starting to feel like the brethren are predicting where we'll be instead of the other way around. Do they have someone who can do that?”

            Vince rubs his eyes. "Ace, it's been a while. Magneto could've recruited anyone by now."

            "Right." I rub my thumbs over the steering wheel. "I'd tell Scott, but I come up with lots of ideas and he just feels like I'm telling him how to do his job."

            "That sounds like something important to bring up though. Can't you just go over his head and tell Xavier?"

            "He'd hate that more, and it would imply Xavier can't do _his_ job either. Maybe I'll mention it to Storm. She backs me up sometimes."

            Vince leans his seat back a nudge. "Did people get hurt on your last mission?"

            “Yes,” I refrain from elaborating, “and we probably could've prevented it."

            He pulls his hands into his sleeves and hugs himself, the heater not at its best. “As far as special forces go, I think you guys have a better track record than most."

            I snort. "We're special forces now? In that case we should get paid. I can't imagine the suits and jet fuel are at a discount."

            "Yours was," he smirks. "And I bet it cost more than the jet. How do they feel about you being an Avenger too?"

            "No one’s said anything.” I squint as an oncoming car in the next lane accidentally flashes their high beams. “Well, Emma commented on the suit. Then Scott mentioned Steve, but I expected more of a backlash.”

            “Why a backlash?”

            “It’s disloyal? And unwise, you should never be on two teams at once. I might be away on a mission with one team, when the other team suddenly needs me. Resentment starts to build because I was with the wrong team at the wrong time. I can’t deal with that, you know I hate taking sides.”

            “I know,” he says in his appeasing tone. “But if that happens it’s far into the future. You worry the same way you strategize. There are too many scenarios in your head at once.”

            I keep an eye out for that driver that’s passing everybody in a rage.

            Vince leans across the divider and kisses my shoulder before resting his head on it. “Stop worrying about the X-Men. We know the Avengers caused enough mess of their own in Manhattan.”

            “That’s just a bunch of morons online who are saying that, people who weren’t even there-”

            “I know, I know.” He sits up. “But I’m talking about the fist-shaped craters in the sides of buildings. The Iron Man missiles that went off under rescuers’ feet-” 

            “I already told you those weren’t his, his go off when they’re supposed to-”

            “Would you let me finish?”

            “No, don’t bring up subjects you know are going to upset me-”           

            “Hey,” he snaps, “you were asking me questions about the Brotherhood a second ago, and I didn’t-”

            “A question, I asked _a_ question. And I gauged your mood, sometimes you want to talk about them.”

            “Why when you’re the one talking is it okay, but when I want to have a conversation about something I have to stop?”

            “That is by no means true, you talked my ear off in high school. The only reason anyone ever shut you down is when you were getting fired up and stressing people out.”

            “Well, I’m not getting fired up now.” He pinches the bridge of his nose to calm himself. “The X-Men care about you and they’re going to back you up when you’re out there. I don’t know as much about the Avengers, obviously. You were so committed to the work last summer, you were like a person I’d never met before. I see that person again when you come back from missions ready to climb a mountain. I don’t want you to lose that.”

            “I’m not going to lose it.” I have difficulty controlling the irritation in my voice. “I’m frustrated not mutinous.”

            "Okay, then I don't want you to lose your _love_ for it. You know, when you used to do team sessions in the Danger Room during school, you'd come out like that. It was extremely attractive."

            I laugh. "So, if I quit the X-Men, I won't be hot anymore?"

            "No, of course you can never not be hot." He squeezes my arm affectionately and flicks the radio on. "I just like seeing you happy."

            The earache inducing melancholy of an R&B singer whines through the speakers, and Vince quickly changes the station before I can say anything.

            “I’m sorry, Vinny.”

            “Sorry for what?”

            I move my hair out of my face. “For being- You know what for, I’m sorry.”

            “You’re fine,” he says frankly. “Stop apologizing, we both have traits to work on.”

            A sign for Modesto goes by. Vince sees it too. “Do you still want to go north?”

            “I’ll know when we get there.” The reply takes some forcing. “We’ll see Tahoe for sure, but I don’t know about the other thing.”

            “Well, you already know my take on it.” His fingers move the tuner so that the stations sound like they’ve been thrown into a bingo cage.  

            “I don’t want to go there with you,” I say. “You don’t know what kinds of memories it will dredge up.”

            “If we find it.” He settles on a classic rock station with a static lisp. “We’re just going to have fun until we do.”

            I look over at him reclining in his seat, eyes closed as he attempts to fall asleep to Aerosmith. “This is just one of my annual trips that you’ve managed to stowaway on.”

            He smiles wide without opening his eyes.

            “Brat.”  I check the time and yawn. “Hurry up and get some sleep.”

            We switch again right before dawn, and enter a rainstorm on a deserted stretch of road. The windshield wipers whip back and forth- one lagging and stuttering- and on occasion the balding tires make the speedometer whip wildly too. Yet, we’re laughing so hard from an old inside joke that it might not be the tires that send us careening off the road. Another hour goes by, and the central valley seems no smaller. We find a station that plays unedited songs for the radio, and Vince jams to the beginning solo of ‘Money For Nothing’ while I insist he drive with both hands instead of rocking his air guitar.

            Around noon we finally pull into a rest stop and stagger out under the fresh-faced sun. The air is clean and crisp, and the wind from the coast funnels through this pass, so once I’ve used the restroom I leave the car doors open to get some airflow. A bag of chips slides across the roof and lands with an inflated smack against the asphalt.

            “They have a vending machine for coffee,” says Vince as he drops a soda in the front seat. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more offended.”

            “That’s America for you.” I bend down to pick up the bag of chips.

            “Let’s climb that.”

            I look over the roof with an arch of my brow, and he nods at something behind me. The parking lot is backed by an incredibly steep, yellow hill. Like the pale parting in a blonde’s hair, a worn trail cuts through the grass from the edge of the asphalt to the hill’s crest. Closing up the car, we race each other to the base, and Vince leaps the last leg to beat me. The trail is nearly vertical, and as we climb he looks back sporadically to reassure himself that I’ll catch him if he falls.

            The view from up here isn’t grandiose. The hill, while being steep, is a dwarf to the rolling monuments we’ve been driving through. However, Vince, who’s been on the umpteenth floor of Stark Tower and stared the Chrysler in the face, exhales in awe. Scrubby pastureland ambles into the foothills to our left, dotted with miniscule oaks and striped with hairline cattle fences. To our right sprawls an overflow of suburbs, powder blue siding and narrow driveways giving away their age. Nearly flush against the sprawl, the candy-colored rollercoaster loops of a massive theme park resemble a giant’s shoddy stitching.

            “This must be the line between northern and southern California.” I take his hand and kissing it. “And you say you won’t miss it.”

            Vince licks his lips in the heavy wind. “Will you marry me?”

            I watch a ride taking place on the neon loops mere miles away. “You should ask me that on a rollercoaster.”

            “Ace,” he tugs on my hand, “I’m serious.”

            “Do you have a ring?” I look to see if he’s hiding one behind his back.

            “No, you know I don’t have a ring.” Licks his lips again. “Didn’t think you’d want one.”

            I brush my hair out of my face. “We’ve only been dating a year.”

            “You think I didn’t want to ask you a year ago?”

            “Why would you want to marry me, Vin?” The wind whisks my words into the backyards below. “I’m ancient and annoying, I panic constantly, I forget your birthday, and I boss you around. Why would you want that?”

            “If those things actually bothered me I would’ve dumped you by now,” he replies jokingly.

            “Does it occur to you they’ll get worse the older I get?”

            “You just said you’re ancient, so I’m assuming they’re already as bad as they can be.” He waits. “So, will you marry me?”

            I rub sleep out of my eyes. “I don’t feel ready for that. Do you?”

            He hesitates, licking his lower lip as he thinks. “Which part aren’t you ready for?”

            Another question needing another answer. “It’s because I said I could live my whole life like this, right?”

            “I tend to take you seriously.”

            I squeeze his hand. “I was serious. I just…didn’t think it was possible.”

            He shuffles his feet in the dirt. “Well, I’m saying it is possible. We can make it possible.”

             “No, Vince we can’t.” Looking away from the horizon, I study the deep, thistly gully at the base of the hill. “I can never spend my whole life with somebody, I outlive everybody.”

            “There you go again.” He drops my hand and rubs his together. “You’re still aging now, right? You probably won’t stop until you’re like thirty, and guys don’t age as fast as women-”

            “That’s not my point. We’re not ready.”

            “I’m ready,” he announces. “I might make a terrible husband, but I can’t imagine a scenario where I’m not ready to do whatever it is you need me to do.”

            Getting down on one knee, something he might have done sarcastically before, Vince takes my hand again and swallows hard. “Let’s just get engaged. That way we still have time to screw up and call it off because I have no intention of divorcing you once I’ve signed on the dotted line.”

            The warmth and earnesty behind this proclamation travels through his touch and deep under my skin. He has that face again, where his eyes grow wide and soft as he tries to appear resolute but for a slightly trembling jaw. This is all he wants, a sign of commitment by my saying yes. “You know there’s no one I’d rather spend my life with? I could lose everything as long as I still have you.”

            He waits, knowing when I’m not finished speaking, but his heart rate increases.

            “Vince, believe me, I have a terrible viewpoint of marriage. It makes sense on paper, but…I never thought I’d want it.” I kneel too to look him in the eye. “I trust you. If this is what you want, then so do I.”

            Vince takes both my hands and presses them between his. “Don’t worry. We can do this.” He breathes on our hands to warm them up. “I couldn’t spend my life with anyone else either.”

            I kiss him on the lips. “C’mon, people in the parking lot have been staring since you knelt down.”

            North of the capitol and east into the foothills is the California I found online. Broad skies and snowcapped mountains are the backdrop for endless pastures frosted green with sprouting grass. Clouds from previous storms hang above the valley, ethereal rays of sunlight piercing through here and there leaving haloes of color on the countryside. The last gas station we saw was half an hour ago, and the clearest radio station plays decent pop.

            Towards evening we pull onto a graveled turnoff where Vince jumps out to investigate a wobbly tire. I open the back in case he needs the spare, then move our little luggage into the back seat and lay a blanket down.

            Vince stands by the taillights, one hand on the liftgate. “We sleeping here tonight?”

            I pull my shirt over my head and throw it at him. “Get in here.”

            Climbing in, he takes off his sweater and lowers the liftgate behind him. “So, we drove all around Sac County, saw some interesting people-”

            I pull him to me.

            “-and didn’t find the place.” Smiling he kisses my lips tenderly. “Should we keep looking?”

            I shake my head from side to side and he chuckles.

            “Like I couldn’t have guessed that.” Another kiss and he lowers his lips to my collar bone. I stroke the hair behind his ear as his kisses begin their descent down my chest. “Tomorrow we’ll drive up to Tahoe and then go home.”

            I shiver in the cold car. “Get the other blanket?”

            He reaches over the seats and pulls on the corner of the fleece quilt until it unfolds. I tuck my toes into the rumpled edge of the blanket we’re on, and Vince throws the second one over me. Once he’s underneath, I waste no time sliding his shirt up and over his head. “Tell me you want this.”

            He kisses me hard, pushing me onto my back. Fingers fumble with my bra clasp, and as his kisses travel down my neck his fingers almost accidentally drag my bra down to my belly. Soon my jeans are down around my ankles, and he’s gently kissing the tops of my thighs. I lean my head back and he moves one cautious hand up my leg. Stifling a distressed moan, he grabs my hand and squeezes it.

            _It’s okay._ I say. _Do whatever you need to._

            With a deep breath, he raises himself onto his knees.

            When it’s over and I’m gasping, trying to hold onto the details before they fade, I turn my head to look at him. “How did I deserve that? How? Have you always loved me that much?”

            He makes a small, pained sound and puts his hand out limply to touch my shoulder. No, he’s trying to touch my face. I roll onto my side and his hand holds my face. His eyes are red and wet and his back rises and falls. He traces the outline of my mouth with two fingers and closes his eyes. _I can’t give you what you deserve. Why did you let me try? I don’t deserve you._

            I close my eyes, willing myself to keep this moment from slipping into the past. _Come over here._

            He scoots closer and I nestle my body against his, pulling the covers tightly around us. Holding him in my arms, I kiss him like a king and let my hands roam.

 

            My body aches dully as I sit up, the wind washing over miles of tall grass and through the craggy branches of sighing oaks. The liftgate is closed, and I remember getting up in the middle of the night when the air got chilly to close it. I liked how I felt, safe in the dark outdoors even though I was naked and unarmed. I didn’t want to close the door to the outside, feeling closer to it than the inside of the car. The night air tasted like home, and cozying back up to Vince proved it to be.

            I pull on a flannel and find my jeans. Stepping out barefoot, I lower the liftgate quietly so Vince doesn’t wake. The cuffs of my jeans swish over the gravel as I walk around to the passenger side to find my water bottle. The wind kicks up from the south and blows my hair across my face. I look up and the sky is a dark, angry grey. The smell of wet straw and iron rich dirt turns my head. With softened thistles pricking my bare feet, and crumbled granite between my toes, I let synesthesia lead me into the knee-high grass.

            The edge of the turnoff dips down until it meets the natural slope of the hill where I phase through a neglected barbed wire fence. Further down the hill where the ground levels is a decaying granite boulder with a crooked split down the middle where lizards and spiders hide during the heat of the day. The different lichens and mosses growing from it all have different flavors, some bitter some acidic. If you find a rock big enough you can hide in the split during the rain and sometimes during the summer. Snakes hide there too though. If it’s a striped one or a narrow-headed brown one then it’s okay, but the coiled kind don’t want you there. Their rattle doesn’t bite, but their tongue does.

            I swallow three times, blinking my dry eyes. “Vince.”

            He can’t hear me. I walk over to the rock, and stoop to see if a long-legged six-year-old could hide in it. Thunder rumbles in the mountains, too far away to matter. I watch as more clouds loom into view, the wind combing the grass and swaying it like waves in an ocean. God playing with the elements.

            Looking straight up into the clouds, I faintly remember lying on my back imagining I was floating in them. Unlike the multi-faceted cumulus clouds that came after a storm, the dense grey ones looked like they could hold my weight.

            The hatchback slams shut and gravel rolls downhill. “Ace, you alright?”

            He can’t get past the barbed wire, so I walk back. “It was someplace like here.”

            I allow him a second or two to grasp my meaning. “Where they left you? Here?”

            “Like here.” Maybe even on this road.  

            Back on the other side of the fence I come up to the edge of the turnoff, hands under my arms. “How are you doing?”

            He raises both eyebrows and rubs his face. “Just wasn’t sure where you were.”

            The sky rolls over me, and the wind around me, but Vince stands in front of me, his hair a mess and his bare torso pimpling in the cold. I step forward and take him in my flannelled arms to which he pretends to shiver and tucks his arms into my embrace.      

            “Let’s skip Tahoe and go in the spring.” I say. “I’m sure it’s nicer then anyhow.”

            Vince hides his face in my neck. “Should we bring M&M along? You know Madge would love it.”

            I sniff. “Yeah, I’ll work it out. Neither of them is a fan of teleporting though.”

            My neck is peppered with sleepy kisses. “You’d looked beautiful standing down there.”

            I breathe in deep. “Let’s go home.”

            An arm around my shoulder, he kisses my temple and leads me back to the car.


	60. Chapter 60

            _May 2013_

           The fan on my desk whirs softly, the crooked blade coughing each time it catches on the cage. A bed sheet is tangled tightly around my foot, and Vince is draped over my back sleeping quietly. It’ll be an hour till the sun sets, but the crickets are already rehearsing. Our clothes on the floor smell like freshwater and warm sand from this morning’s Tahoe trip. Madge forgot to bring a swim suit, so she rolled up her jeans and waded in the shallows while Matt and Vince tried to nab fish with their bare hands.

            Turning his head to the other cheek, Vince sighs. “Who’re you texting?”

            “Madge. She’s still not okay with us not having a wedding.”

I get a muffled mutter in reply, and he tucks a hand under my bare stomach. I twitch my shoulder as the ends of his hair prick against my skin. Plugging the phone back into the charger, I lay my head down on the pillow and wait for him to fall back asleep. I shouldn’t have said yes. Vince didn’t know what he was asking. I’m roughly fifty years older than him- fourteen by this universe’s timeline- and can’t even begin to explain my life to him. How can he be expected to believe me when I say I’ve lived in outer space, or that I experienced wars so firsthand there were once scars to prove it?

            The bed creaks as he shifts his position and kisses my shoulder. “Your head’s heavy.”

            More shoulder kisses.

            “May I join?”

            “It’s dark.”

            “Then let me lighten it.” He eases his weight off my back. “When will you talk to me like you trust me?”

            “It’s not distrust.”

            “Then what is it?”

            I cover my face with my hand. “Look, I want you to know me, but there are things that aren’t going to make sense to you- that might scare you. I don’t want to lose _your_ trust.”

            He withdraws his hand from under me and pushes mine away from my face. “You can go in and out of my mind whenever you please, but your mind is off-limits.”

            “I let in you in constantly,” I argue. “Every time we’re in bed together I have no idea whose thoughts belong to who or which emotions go where.”

            “Not the same. You have the ability to hide from me, but I don’t have that for you. You can feel my emotions just by touching me; I have to guess with you.”

            I wriggle beneath him. “Congratulations, that’s how all guys feel.”

            “When I met you, you were careful. That’s why I liked you.” He kisses my shoulder softly to prove he’s not frustrated. “But you were also honest, and I liked that more.”

            I sigh through my nose. “You are just as capable of getting in my head as I am with yours. I’m scared that one of these days you’ll see what’s in there before I have a chance to explain it.”

            “So just explain it.” He squeezes my side. “Please. You won’t lose my trust.”

I’m too tired to argue any further. “Someday, you’ll know everything about me. I promise.”

            Both hands slide under my arms. “Then I look forward to someday.”

_July 2013_

Protestors chant down the street, signs held high, faces pink from the heat rather than wholesome indignation. When the sound stops, the bartender furrows his brow and fiddles with the remote. Matt pretends to be absorbed by the soccer match on the other screen.

It’s been two weeks since the media learned of “the antidote,” yet it’s not generating the attention it once might have. The day after the news broke, a terrorist threat called the Ten Rings made their violent debut via live broadcast. The public’s attention was quickly diverted, and despite protests antidote trials are going as planned.

“So no Madge this year?” Matt asks. “It would be fun to sneak her into a bar.”

            I elbow him as I sip my margarita.  

"The little lady says she'll visit at Christmas," Vince replies. "And she'd rather you sneak her into Macy's so she can get her mom something nice."

Matt taps my arm. “Did you hear what he called you?”

            “ ‘Little lady’ is his name for Madge. Cause she a lady.” I guzzle down the drink. Brain freeze- oh damn, ow. Their thoughts are siphoned neatly through a megaphone into my head.

            “Will you be home for Christmas?” Vince asks.

            With a derisive huff, Matt taps his glass for a refill. “Dad’s being a dick again and cutting my allowance. So, I’m cutting my class time short by three months. So yes, I’ll be home.”

            I glance at Vince and he shakes his head. “So you’ll be crashing in my room again?”

            “Don’t you basically live in her room now?” Matt dodges my kick under the counter. “She doesn’t leave it for the holidays anyway.”

“God, not this again.” I set the empty margarita glass aside and get out my wallet.

            “The holidays are an important aspect of life in this country.” Matt puts both elbows on the counter and slides his refilled glass towards him. “Where did you grow up that you never celebrated Christmas?”

            “Not everyone in the world is just like you, man.” Vince finishes his drink and looks around as I pay. "This place wasn't here last year."

            "Just opened." Matt looks around too. "Don't know how they managed to get such a classy crowd in Hell's Kitchen, but damn."

            "Pabst isn't classy." I eye a hipster at the other end of the bar. Even Logan’s standards are higher.

            “Hey, how come we don’t have a regular place?” Vince asks. “We’re always trying something new, why don’t we just have a hangout?”

            “Because Mr. Adventurous wants to hit everything as soon as it opens,” I pocket my change.

            While Matt dawdles inside, Vince and I teeter on the hot curb. On its massive bed of asphalt, New York City soaks in heat all day to keep the city simmering at night. Vince blows air on my cheek to cool me down, and I teasingly do the same for him.

            “You know he’s eventually going to piss off his dad for real,” he says.

            “Maybe that’s what his dad wants, for him to just go away and figure it out on his own.”

            The door jangles and Matt steps out.

            “I hope you at least got her number after making us wait.”

             Matt nudges me off the curb. “She’s one of those feminist chicks who tells you to fuck off before you can even say hi.”

            Vince smirks with premature pride. “Sounds like she’s already got your number.”

            I chuckle and Matt clicks his tongue. “Yes, yes, Queens, you’re very witty.”

* * *

            _December 2013_

            Raucous laughter blooms in the kitchen of the tiny apartment. Several large sofas and a carpet of pillows furnish a living room occupied by subdued college students, cups of cocoa and cider held in chilly fingers.

            Ace slaps the video camera away. “Who gave you that? Give it back to Madge.”

            Matt chuckles a little drunkenly and backs away, turning off the camera. He sees Madge talking to a male friend of Vince’s by the snack table, and ambles over to her. Vince’s friend is a reedy brunet with a deep voice, and whatever he’s just said makes Madge laugh and squeeze her own arm. It’s a habit of hers that Matt can’t figure out- whenever something cracks her up she has to squeeze her arm. The reedy kid smiles shyly at his plate when Madge laughs, and Matt decides that’s enough.

            “Hey, Rosie’s looking for you.” He points over the kid’s head before moving between him and Madge. Picking up a sprinkled confection the size of a softball, he holds it out to her. “Cupcake?”

            “Oh no, I’ve already had like three.” Blushing at that confession, she takes the cupcake anyway. First bite and the frosting leaves a ring around her mouth and on her nose. Hiding a smile, Matt offers her a napkin.

            “Is that mine?” she asks, wiping her face and looking at the video camera.

            He’d forgotten he was holding it. “Ace told me to give this back to you.”

            “Oh, thanks.” She searches for a place to set her cupcake down. “Did the battery die?”

            Matt shrugs and tilts to the side slightly.

            “Oh, okay.” Madge presses her lips together. “Then I should go put it in the car. I don’t want to accidentally leave it here.”

            Matt scratches his ear. “I should go with you. It’s getting dark out.”

            She looks up at him, clutching the camera in her hands. “Okay.”

            Vince and Ace have a couch all to themselves, her legs in his lap as he plays with her hair. The two of them are talking alone in a crowded room, pretending no one else is here. Matt puts his hands in his pockets and sighs through his nose.

            “Hey,” Madge takes Ace by the arm, “Matt and I are going to the car real quick, ‘kay?”

            Ace raises her eyebrows in concern. “Sure. Don’t be gone too long, call if you need us.”

            Stepping over legs and abandoned Solo cups, Madge makes her way to the door where Matt waits. Outside at the foot of the stoop she giggles as he mock stumbles down the stairs. Smiling stupidly, he tucks his hands into his pockets and shivers.

            “It’s just the next block over, Mattie,” she says, noticing his coat isn’t as warm as it is fashionable. “I’ll be fine.”

            “Are you kidding? You’re so tiny somebody could just pick you up and run off with you. Like this.” He lifts her up off her feet and begins walking bigfoot-like down the sidewalk.

            Laughing in surprise, Madge kicks her feet and holds onto her cap. “Stop it.”

            He chuckles again and sets her down. Immediately, she tears off laughing, footsteps slapping loudly in puddles of melted snow. Ambling after her, Matt smiles stupidly while blinking raindrops out of his eyes. Her white cap slips off her head and lands on the ground, standing out on the dark concrete. Stooping to pick it up, that familiar dizziness rushes to Matt’s brain. With a quiet gasp, he stands up carefully, reaching for the cast iron fence to steady himself. Missing it, he staggers.

            “Matt?” A gentle hand touches his arm. “You alright?”

            He nods with a sheepish grin and wipes damp hair off his forehead. “I-I drank too much, Maggie.”

            “I know.” The look Ace gave him when he arrived to pick them up must’ve meant that. “You should sit down. You want to sit in the car?”

            Matt notices the reflection of a porch light in the raindrops clinging to her skin. Steadying himself, he wipes them away with his thumb. Then he kisses her.

            Madge’s heart leaps into her throat, and her grip on his arm tightens. The kiss lingers as the rain increases steadily, pelting them with sharp drops. She shivers with delight, which he mistakes for cold and hugs her, deepening the kiss.

            Abruptly, he turns away. “I’ m sorry, I-I shouldn’t…I shouldn’t’ve done that.”

            Madge, equal parts disappointed and thrilled, waits for explanation. Matt grips the iron railing and leans over it to clear his head.

            “Why not?”

            “Because you, you’ll just think I’m drunk. I am drunk.” He runs his tongue over his teeth, wondering if this is reality or if he’s already passed out in bed. “You’re perfect.”

            Madge blushes in the cold air, heart fluttering faster. Coming up close to him, she tucks the camera under her arm and touches his shoulder. “You’re better than perfect.”

            The cold iron is turning his fingers to ice, and rain is running down his neck. Standing up straight, he looks at her again.

            “Let’s get your camera to the car before the rain…rains on it.”

            She might’ve giggled at that, but a passing car blotted out the sound. Trembling on tiptoes, Madge gives him another kiss. Elated and a little seasick, he kisses her back, clumsily brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. He usually holds his drink better than this, so why does he feel so weak-kneed? Madge on the other hand is overwhelmed by the romance of kissing in the rain, even if Prince Charming smells like Samuel Adams. 

* * *

            “Thank you for coming last night.” Vince sets down the tray of clean glasses. “I hope you don’t think I made you.”

            “Of course I’d come." I set down the plates. "I’d rather go to a party of your friends than of Matt’s.”

            Vince smiles and starts loading the next tray with glasses from the large industrial dishwasher. “So you just wanted to tick off Matt.”

            “I didn’t want him to think he’d won." I avoid a puddle on the floor, and look around for a mop. "He holds that kind of thing over you.”

            The tinkling of the glasses builds rhythm as he loads them on one at a time. "Why didn't you wear that shirt last night?"

            "This one?" I look down and pull on the hem. "What do you mean?"

            "Well the one you wore had a coffee stain on it, but you said you didn't have anything better. You look great in the one you're wearing though."

            “It has a big bleach hole in the back.” I turn and point so he can see.

            He shrugs. “I’ve never noticed it. Your hair usually covers it, I think.”

            “Yeah, I only wear it around here.”

            He closes up the dishwasher and carries the second tray over to the counter. “Then I’m the only person who gets to see how cute you look in it?”

            “I knew you would go there, you dumb dope.” I turn and lean the mop against the counter so I can pull my hair back. Vince comes up behind me and kisses my shoulder.

            “You’ve gotta allow me to be cheesy sometimes.”

            “I love your cheesiness. You’re just a dope.”

            “Hm,” he rests his chin on my shoulder and barely blinks when I drape my ponytail over his head, "that’s girlfriend for ‘I’m not going to tolerate it when we’re married.’”

            “No, that’s girlfriend for ‘I’ll enjoy it for now, but I’m going to hate it by year ten.’”

            “Year ten? That soon?”

            “Oh, get off me.” Someone's coming anyway. I've already returned the mop to its hook by the time Kitty sticks her head into the kitchen.

            "Ace?" she beckons me to follow.

            Out in the dining room she takes out her phone. "Sorry, the wifi sucks in there. Stark’s in the news again.”

            “What’s the idiot doing now?” I ask, looking over her shoulder at the video she's found.

            “Oh, not much.” She holds it up so I can see. “Just daring the Mandarin to come fight him _at his house_.”

            “Typical,” but the Tony on the screen has never looked this furious, “where is that?”

            Kitty shrugs and lowers the phone as the video ends. “It cuts off there, but he gives his home address in Malibu-”

            _“He what?_ How old is this video, where was he?”

            “It was outside a hospital this morning. The article said a friend of his was in the bombing in LA-”

            “I’ve got to make a call, Vin,” I yell over my shoulder as I head out to the side terrace.

            After five minutes of straight-to-voicemail calls on every number I know linked to Tony and Pepper, I kick the stone railing and growl.

            _Ace, get up here now,_ calls Vince.

            Stepping into the dining room, I already know he isn’t in the kitchen anymore, so I jump to his bedroom. There, I find him on his laptop looking stressed. “This is live from Stark’s mansion.”

            Before I can see the screen, over the whirring of the helicopter blades I can hear the stomach-churning sound of concrete crumbling. “Oh, god, no.”

             Tony’s home is already slowly tilting downward to meet the ocean at the foot of the cliff. Two or three military helicopters hover not far away, and the tail of a short-range missile is gradually dissipating in the wind.       

            “They’re firing bullets at him.” I point. “I have to go.”

            The shadow of a fifth helicopter causes my heart to jump, thinking the house will be attacked from the front as well. It becomes apparent, however, that there is more than one news copter as the scene.

            “There,” I shout at the screen, pointing to two female figures in the driveway, “that’s Pepper.”

            That means he’s still in the building. Pepper and the other woman keep looking back as they hurry away from the buckling concrete. The chopper cam moves so that the driveway is no longer in view, and we watch the churning water as the remainder of the second story slides into the ocean.

 

            “I can’t chase down a helicopter, it’s not that simple,” I snap, again getting Pepper’s voicemail. “Damn it.”

            Vince keeps quiet, arms crossed and chin down. With a growl, I throw the phone at the bed.

            “Why, Tony, dammit, why, why.” The cameras keep rolling, and there are already emergency vehicles on the scene. “I need to go there. Find Pepper and make sure she’s okay, make sure Happy’s with her.”

            “Who’s Happy?” Vince asks.

            “Driver- er, no, he’s her bodyguard now. Used to be Tony’s.”

            Vince clams up again.

            “What?”

            “Her bodyguard is the guy in the hospital. That’s what it said-”

            “Then who’s with her? Who’s that woman- No, no,” she could be an assistant and they both managed to make it out somehow, “I need to find Tony. I need to talk to Xavier and see if he’ll find him. If he can find him.”        

            I hesitate after hearing myself. Tony might actually be gone this time.

            “Ace, it’s okay,” says Vince softly. “I mean- No, it’s not, but….”

            Squeezing my eyes shut, I force the pain away. “I’m fine, Vin. I’ve been expecting him to go like this for a while. Tony’s proven hard to kill in past. He’s probably lying low until he figures out how to kick the Mandarin’s ass. Probably.”

            Vince picks up my phone and scrolls briefly through my four contacts. “You don’t have his number saved?”

            “Memorized. The numbers that are there are for emergencies.” This might be the first time since his kidnapping that Tony’s gone off the grid. I wrap my arms around myself, chewing my lip as I watch the laptop screen. “Hang on. He has an AI who knows me.”

            “JARVIS,” Vince answers, reminding me that they’ve met.

            The second-hand chair creaks when I sit down. “Apologies ahead of time if there are repercussions for this.”

            If standard communications are cut off, then hopefully JARVIS recognizes my handiwork and reminds Tony to freaking call me.

            “Will he call you?” Vince asks, tossing my phone back and forth between his hands.

            “Doubtful.” JARVIS is proving difficult to reach anyhow. “He has dozens of connections, and Rhodes has a suit too. He doesn’t need me.”

            Vince puts the phone on the desk. “So what do we do?”

            “I’ll go to the tower and try to contact JARVIS that way,” I reply.

            Vince gets up and grabs his coat.

            “No,” I put my phone in my pocket, “I need someone keeping an eye on the news. Call me if you hear anything.”

            Reluctantly, he puts his coat down again. “Same to you.”

           

            It isn’t until an attempt on the president’s life two nights later that the world finds out Tony’s still alive. A series of phone calls and visits to the tower continue to get me nowhere until sometime after New Year’s I visit again and sense someone on one of the floors above me. Teleporting repeatedly, I land with both feet onto a tabletop. Someone swears flatly.

            “Bruce!” I jump down and run to him. “Where is he?”

            “In the bathroom?” he answers uncertainly. “Hi.”

            Hearing a door open in the hall, I head in that direction. Tony has one brow arched as he hears me coming. “Urchin.”

            “Please stop almost dying,” I say, wrapping my arms around his shoulders.

            “But that’s the only time I know you really care about me,” he says in a playful tone.

            “Then you’re an idiot.”

            He chuckles softly. “You know, if I hadn’t just been through hell. How’s Mr. Ace Hardware?”

            “Nursing a cold.” I end the hug and glance at his shirt. “How big is the scar?”

            He gives me a questioning look, and I point to his chest. “Spent the last month in recovery, and the skin still feels weak. Scar the size of an orange.”

            “Well, you’re old, it takes longer.” I smile. “And otherwise, how do you feel?”

            He lets out a long breath. “Stronger.”

            I nod. “Good. I hear you destroyed all your suits too. Don’t need me anymore.”

            “Well,” he crosses his arms, “once the honeymoon’s over and you have to start bringing home the bacon, there’s always a job here for you.”

            I step on his foot. “I hear the boss is a real piece of work though.”

            “Hey,” he flicks me on the shoulder, “I’m serious. Whenever you get tired of cleaning up after high schoolers, come live here. Bring Vince, the commute will be easier on him, and he can work in the robotics lab. Is he bright?”

            “He’s an enthusiast and you intimidate him.” I study him carefully as I tilt my head to the side. “But I’ll see what he thinks.”

            Tony waves a finger in the direction I came from. “Bruce is staying on semi-permanently while we work on upgrades for the team. Could use your help.”

            “I’m not a scientist, I’d just get in the way.”

            “I don’t need a scientist. You already understand everything we’re saying, most of the time.”

            “Most of the time.” I look back and cross my arms. “He hasn’t said anything about leaving again has he?”

            Tony pats my shoulder as he walks past me. “No worries, your old crush isn’t going anywhere.”

            “He _told_ you?”

            “You know, he’s amazingly reticent, but stay up late enough discussing quantum theory and he spills his guts.” Tony winks.

            “Hey,” I take him by the arm while we’re still out of earshot, “next time something like this happens, I need to know where you are. You and Pepper were unreachable for days, and I know in an emergency I’m not the first person to call, but…I can be there in an instant to back you up. Okay?”

            Swallowing to clear his throat, Tony grips my hand on his arm. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

            Vince kisses the top of my head as I wrap my arms around him. “I’ll go anywhere you want.”

            “Oh, stop that.” I smack his ribs. “You’ve already said how much you love it here. You’d die here if I let you.”

            Taking my hand, he bites my knuckles lightly. “You love it here too. And if you’d never met me, you’d stay for Logan.”

            “Not really,” I say hesitantly. “We wander. I don’t always know where he’s going to be.”

            “You guys are too much alike.”

            “Exactly.”

            “Then what are we?”

            “Just alike enough.” I lean my head back so he can kiss me on the lips.

            With a happy sigh, he taps me on the nose. “Who’ll walk you down the aisle, Tony or Logan?”

            “Whoever’s least busy that day.” I yawn. “And we’re not even having a wedding, so it doesn’t matter.”

            “Sure, but one of them should be there right? I mean, who would you tell first?”

            “Whichever one I ran into first.”

            He taps me on the nose again. “You’re being stubborn.”

            “I don’t know how to answer the question, it’s a weird question. I just want to marry you, not have spectators while I do it.”

            “I know, I know, I’m not saying let’s have a wedding-”

            “Logan,” I snuggle deeper into the covers, “because he won’t make a big deal out of it. Tony will hire us a limo, a seven layer cake, and probably some guests.” The idea of Tony actually doing any of that makes me laugh out loud.

            “Yeah, he’s more like your drunk uncle than your dad.” Vince strokes my hair.

            “Our drunk uncle. You marry me you get the in-laws too. You didn’t think of that did you?”

            “Honestly, I’m kinda freaked out now.” Vince looks up at the ceiling. “Between Wolverine and Iron Man, if I ever make you cry I’ll be dead for sure.”

            I laugh again and kiss him. “Like it’s them you’ll have to worry about.”

            His body quivers as he laughs too. “Just be glad my family wants nothing to do with me. They’d be stunned that I got such a fantastic wife.”

            “And are living in the lap of luxury in a horse stable,” I reply, pinching him where he’s ticklish.

            He responds by rolling me onto my back and kissing me fervently. I clasp my hand around the back of his neck to hold him steady as I kiss him back.

            _You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,_ he says. _I’d show you off without shame._

 _I’m a miserable person and you know that better than anyone._ I gasp for air when I have the chance. _But you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me too._

“It’s been a year,” he says, pulling away for a moment. “Let’s do it. Let’s get married right now.”

            I laugh and pull him back down again. “Don’t worry. We won’t be that couple who’s been engaged forever like Scott and Jean were.”

            “Okay,” he lifts his head, “how about we get married this spring? A few more months, give you a little more time to get sick of me-”

            “Or you to get sick of me.”

            “-and we’ll decide where to live, here or the tower. Sound good?”

            “Sounds perfect.” I cover his cold ears with both hands. “Now pull up the covers and keep kissing me before there’s another catastrophe.”


	61. Chapter 61

            The light from a passing helicopter lures Tony’s attention to the unnatural  darkness outside. The elements are stirring up a brawl, clouds bulging and flexing like pro wrestlers when the camera’s on. The glass bottle in his guest’s hand clinks against the metal tabletop, and he flinches. Vince looks at him in surprise before nodding knowingly. “She does that too.”

            Ace laughs at something Bruce just said causing Vince to look over his shoulder. Husbands and lovers have rightly had that same wariness around Tony, but in this case he finds it laughable. “So you two met at the boarding school?”

            Vince turns his attention back on Tony. “Yeah, sophomore year.”

            “Wow, you hit it off at sixteen?”

            “Er, no, she didn’t want me.” Vince swallows, cheeks reddening a little.

            Tony raises an eyebrow. Ace and this kid have been dating for two years, yet he knows jack about him. Thankfully though, Vince isn’t as unwilling to talk as his counterpart. “So, this mutant team she’s a part of, how come I don’t hear about them in the news?”

            Vince looks back and forth between his eyes. “If it’s something Ace doesn’t like talking about, I can’t talk about it either.”

            Damn it. “I don’t think it’s that she doesn’t want to talk about it, it’s just a subject we’ve never really covered.”

            “They’re not in the news because the media likes to pretend they don’t exist.” Vince casually takes a drink of beer. “Apparently, not being hounded by reporters also helps to get the job done.”

            “What job is that?” Tony leaves a warm smile in his eyes to put Vince at ease.

            “You’ll have to ask Ace,” Vince replies, smiling himself.

            Tony narrows his eyes. “Does she prep you before you visit or is she feeding you answers through a Bluetooth?”

            “Telepathically.” Vince takes another drink.

            “Liar.”

            Vince snorts a laugh, and Tony looks up to catch Ace’s glance over her shoulder.

            “Look, she’s loyal to them, but she speaks well of you guys. I think after all she’s been through, the Avengers make her feel comfortable.” Vince tilts his bottle appreciatively. “So, thanks.”

            Tony sniffs and rearranges some shot glasses on the counter, his modesty quarreling with his need to disguise it. “I wouldn’t really describe us as a cuddly bunch. I mean _I’m_ a gentleman, but the rest really rag on her. Especially Rogers, you gotta look out for that guy, he has a mean streak.”

            Vince chuckles. “I’ll remember that.”

            Tony smiles, wondering what else Ace tells about him. “You’re still going to NYU-Poly, right?”

            He nods. “To be closer to Ace.”

            “That’s a lousy excuse, we both know NYU’s better anyway, but if it gets you brownie points.”

            Vince sets his beer down and rubs his eyes. “You’re even worse than she says you are.”

            “I try to live above and beyond expectations.” A beeping alarm goes off within the room just as he lifts his glass. He mumbles into his drink that Bruce go check on that, but Bruce is already addressing it.

            "What's that?" Vince asks in a tone of feigned disinterest. A put-on, so in case Tony doesn't reply he can act like he never said it. The humility in this kid is unbearable.

            Tony glances over at the holo-screens Bruce is monitoring. "It's a backup system we're working on in case the green guy can't be taken down by general means."

            Arms crossed, Ace leans over Bruce’s shoulder to examine the screen. “Does that make you Archie?”

            “Tony’s naming, not mine.” Bruce rubs his chin as he adjusts a calibration on the screen. “And I regret telling either of you anything.”

            Ace presses an apologetic hand to his shoulder. Tony clears his throat and changes the subject.

* * *

 

            Catching up with Bruce isn’t quite the same in this context. If Tony isn’t hassling me, he’s hassling Vince.

            Tony tosses a handful of trail mix into his mouth. “It’s simple, Detmer. Get your BA and start interning here, like Ace did.”

            “Only, officially and less weird this time,” I add.

            Tony spreads his hands out, a pecan poised perfectly between thumb and forefinger. “You were the one who wouldn’t sign any papers.”

            I raise an eyebrow. “Why are you trying so hard to get us to stay here?”

            He sends Bruce a look across the room. “Cap and the spooks are in D.C., and Hammer Time is beyond infinity. When shit hits the fan again, I’ve got to have everyone in the same place at the same time. You just happen to be the closet and easiest to contact.”

            “Convince,” I correct. “You were going to say I’m the easiest to convince.”

            Tony points across the room. “That’s that pushover over there.”

            Bruce puts his hands out at his sides in mock offence.

            “He moved to India to get away from you, Tony. Give the man his space.”

            The other two laugh, but Tony just nods at me, a comeback already on the tip of his tongue when the test screens beep again.

            “Your turn,” Bruce says smugly into his herbal tea.

 

            Tony spends the rest of the evening making prying comments about our engagement until I set one of his experiments on fire and call it a night. With the space heater in my bedroom on the fritz, and the lack of privacy in the mansion, Vince and I decide it won't hurt to spend the night in my suite here.

            “Your desk would fit right over there,” Vince says, stretching his arms over his head like he always does before bed, “and the mini-fridge next to it. Damn, there’s a lot of room in here.”

            I tap my toothbrush against the edge of the sink. “It stresses me out.”

            The buckle of his belt jingles as he kicks off his jeans. “That’s why you moved out to the stables? That room is tiny.”

            “It’s not the amount of space, but the luxury of it that makes me uncomfortable.” I run the soap under warm water until I have a decent lather with which to wash my face. “Tony loves making people uncomfortable.”

            The bed creaks gently as Vince sits down. “He just wants you to stick around. A lot of people seem to these days.”

            I rub my face into the towel, wishing it weren’t so soft.

            “He’s not lonely, is he?” Vince asks.

            Coming out to the bedroom, I leave my hair tie on the bedside table. “He’s big brass, but he did just lose his home. I think he’s scared.”

            Vince pulls back the covers and gets in, and I turn out the light.

            “I’d move in for Tony’s sake, but I don’t really know the others.”

            He makes sure to touch me as soon as I climb in. “You just don’t trust them yet. You felt that way about the X-Men once too.”

            Scooting closer, I run my hand over his abdomen. “I suppose I just don’t know them well enough to introduce you. If you’re going to live here- which neither of us has to, I can always bunk at home- I’d rather I trusted the people living around you.”

            I can hear him smile. “You know I’ve slept near worse people.”

            With the back of my finger I stroke the smooth space beneath the joining of his ribs. It’s not just distrust, it’s the idea of living with that many inner demons. A whole other house full of people to look after.

            “Bruce looks aged since last I saw him. He appears relaxed around Tony, but what I see is a contained unease. I think he’s given up somehow.”

            A mild discomfort settles over Vince at the mention of him. I press the flat of my hand to his chest, reminding him I can feel whatever he feels. He breathes in deep and rests his hand on my hip. “Why did you like him?”

            “Empathy. I wanted to help.” That and his kindness despite the tidal wave of harm that had struck him. Leaning in, I leave a kiss on the edge of Vince’s mouth. “That man saved my life.”

            “I know.”

            “Then stop acting childish every time he’s mentioned-”

            “I don’t get childish. You said he was the first person you’ve ever felt for. At one time you cared about him more than me- you _lived_ with him.”

            “Helping him was my substitute for helping you. I told him about you and he’s been rooting for you ever since. Why do you think he was so happy to meet you today?”

            Vince rubs his thumb over my skin to show he’s listening. “I thought he was trying to make up for Tony’s wisecracks.”

            I ache to kiss him again. “He likes you.”

            With a long sigh, Vince grips my shirt and I move closer. “Do you want to leave the mansion and live here? Regardless of what I want?”

            He kisses me before I can speak. One arm winds around me. I card my fingers through his hair as he slides a hand up my shirt.

            _We’re going to crash and burn, you know._

            His fingers stop short of my breast. _I know._

            I press my lips together and close my eyes. _You’ll start to hate me. I’ll become a nag and…all those other things that men hate._

            “Hell no.” His fingers trail over my skin. “You’re gorgeous. You’re a genius. You scare men in the good way.”

            Our heartbeats kick it up a notch as I lift my leg over his.

            “I’m going to lose you to another man, and I’m going to deserve it.”

            Of all the worst case scenarios we’ve discussed, this is the funniest so far. “What makes you think I’ll be looking at other men? It took me this long to look at you, and I still can’t handle seeing you naked.”

            He laughs abruptly, honestly, before kissing me the way he does when his life couldn’t be better. He’s gearing up to be on top, so I push him onto his back and hold him down.

            “I’m going to frighten you,” I say, feeling the hairs rise on the back of my neck, “and you’ll realize your error and start looking for someone sweet and harmless.”

            “God, if I ever do that, kill me.” He tries to free his arms so he can disrobe me, but I keep him pinned down.

            “You’re a genius too. The difference is you’re smart enough to downplay it.”

            “The difference is you won’t let me take your shirt off.” He struggles beneath me, releasing short, labored breaths as he tries not to laugh.

            Sitting up, I lift my shirt over my head even as he fumbles for the hem. I expect the cool air of the stables to rush my bare skin and send tremors up my spine. Instead, I blush in the heat of this luxurious room as the wind rips around the swimming curves of the tower.

             

            The frat boy pop of Matt's ringtone goes off on the bedside table. I turn my face into the pillow, reluctant to reach out of the warm bedcovers to silence it. “What time?"

            Vince barely grunts in reply. After eight seconds, my phone goes quiet. Then Vince’s starts. The mattress sighs as he turns over, memory foam rising to fill the space he left.

            “What’s up- Who? Hold- hold on.” He gets up abruptly, stuffing the phone between my ear and shoulder. "Talk to him."

            Scrambling for his clothes, Vince accidentally turns on the holo-display on his bedside table and curses the morning weather report. I put the phone to my ear. “Matt, what-?”

            “Come get me,” he says instantly, “I’m in the university- _shit-_ ” there’s a tremendous crash in the background followed by screams, “-study hall next to the green, but we’re heading onto-” A clatter ends the call. 

            Vince swears under his breath as he holds my phone. “It’s aliens again, London. Thor’s already there.”

            I’m half-dressed by the time he leans across to show me a bystander’s video.

            “There’s the green. Jeez,” I cast about for my coat, “he _would_ be at ground zero, that idiot. My heavy boots are at home.”

            Vince is quickly dressing himself. “What should I do? Wait for you here or at home?”

            “Find Tony and Bruce.” I pull my hair back tight and zip my phone into an interior coat pocket. “They’ve probably only just gone to sleep, so they should be in their rooms.” What time is it in London?

            “Be safe,” Vince admonishes. “Have him call me once he’s safe.”

            The facilities around the iconic green are empty when I arrive, but a gargantuan space vessel has plowed its way into the green, leaving wide lips of earth curling away from it. With the battle so close by, I stay in the buildings searching for Matt’s trail. Shockwaves keep sending me to my knees in the rubble until I happen to catch sight of his phone under an overturned desk. No use calling him again. His scent is confused with those of various other escapees, but I follow them out onto a deserted street, hoping his trail will pick up again.

            The Underground is naturally crowded when I descend the stairs. A smattering of police and paramedics are working at controlling the crowd, and I see a familiar blue blazer sitting among a group of other students.

            “Matt!” I climb around a panicked cluster of office workers and hurry over to where a paramedic is looking him over. His sleeve is rolled up, and there’s a speckling of blood on his face.

            “Glass?” I ask, kneeling down beside the paramedic. Matt immediately grabs my arm.

            “Won’t even scar,” the paramedic replies.

            As soon as she moves to the next person, Matt rolls his sleeve down and lowers his voice. “What took you so long?”

            “You weren’t where you said you’d be; I had to look for you.” I pull him to his feet. “Your apartment should be safe. Head for the bathroom.”

            “With you?” he asks unsurely as I force him into the women’s bathroom.

            Twenty-seven people are already crammed in there, so we squeeze back out again. The only other private place to jump from is the street. “Stairs.”

            “Police,” he replies. “They’re not letting anyone out there.”

            “They haven’t even got guns, what are they going to do?” Wordlessly, I command the policemen to look away as we push past them and up the stairs.

            Our landing isn’t too graceful as I immediately trip over a pair of jeans on the floor and send us tumbling. Matt hits his shoulder against the dresser and curses. “Why does this always happen now? What did you do?”

            “What are you talking about?” I snap, kicking the laundry off my foot.

            “In Manhattan, what did you do to piss them off so that they keep coming back?”

            I stare at him. “These aren’t even the same aliens.”

            “How do you know?” he demands.

            “What- You just said I was in Manhattan, you think I can’t tell the difference between what I fought last time and what’s attacking us now?” I get to my feet and walk to the window. “They smell different, they look different. They don’t even speak the same language for Christ’s sake.”

            “You can tell what language they’re speaking. Wonderful.”

            “Yeah, I can,” I shout, completely done with his attitude. “The same way you can change sound.”

            “Stop yelling,” he yells in a panic.

            “Matt, who cares? Hey, we have superpowers too,” I shout at the ceiling.

            “God, you’re weird.” He holds his head in his hands.

            “You’ll be fine.” I shrug my coat back into shape. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

            “You’re leaving? Where are you going?”

            “To help, jackass.” What lies ahead of me may be worse than last time. “You think you’re the only one who needs rescuing?”

            I teleport before he can say something offensive in reply.

            Two years ago I could navigate Manhattan’s grid with a bag over my head. London, however, is a patchwork maze of diagonals, switchbacks, and impractical alleys. To worsen matters an unpredictable series of portals keeps sending garbage, birds, and siphons of wind blustering back into our world. The occasional foreign leaf or rockslide falls through too, native to some other realm. I struggle to get people underground without accidentally sending them to a planet made of lava.

            The fight stays on the Maritime greens where several massive portals are aligning. I avoid them, hoping the wielder of the mystical hammer has a plan. Merely a handful of soldiers came through the rift this time, and while they aren’t as vicious or agile as the Chitauri their armor is stronger and their strategy more precise. I don’t bother with a fight when we cross paths, only command them to sleep.

            Within an hour the chaos has dimmed. A few young people with equipment seemed to know how to close the rifts, and from a nearby parking lot I watched with satisfaction as the aligned portals sealed shut.

            When I jump back to the apartment, Matt yells in surprise.

            “Damn you, why’d you take so long?”

            I throw his coat at him. “SHIELD’s coming, so if you want your stuff we need to move.”

            “Who’s SHIELD?” he asks, holding out his coat as if forgetting what it’s for.

            “Put it on, or the government is going to take your phone.”

            A brief search of the study hall finds his laptop and school books unharmed. I dig his cell phone out from under the desk and hand it to him. Clicking his tongue, he sets his things down to appraise the cracked screen.

            “What are you doing?” I can already hear large vehicles pulling in. “We have to _go_.”

            “Alright, alright, geez.” He retrieves his things and looks out the shattered windows at the green.

            I grab him and push him at the back door. “Complete strangers are easier to herd than you.”

 

            I keep an eye out the window of his dorm, waiting for the SHIELD trucks. Matt’s been trying to get in touch with his roommate for the last fifteen minutes, calling every friend and classmate in his contacts to make sure they’re alright. It was the only chore I could think of to keep him from driving me crazy.

            “The more you stare out that window, the more I think something’s going to jump through it.”

            It’s possible SHIELD found a better route than this street. I step away and turn so I’m facing him. “Why did you blame me?”

            “What?” He drops the phone beside him on the bed. “I was freaked out. I was freaked out because this time it was happening to _me_.”

            I cross my arms. “So, in panicking your first thought was ‘Ace did this’ followed by, ‘Once she bails me out, I’m going to blame her for it.’ ”

            “Oh, get over it.” He starts to unbutton his blazer. “Everyone knows what a mess you made of New York.”

            I could slap him. “You watched me spend a whole summer breaking my back in the rebuilding work. Shit gets destroyed, it’s called _war_.”

            “No, this is different.” He pulls off his blazer. “You and Thor just let aliens attack my school. _My school.”_

            The school you fought your dad on having to attend. He goes on, but for a split second, there’s no sound. The building trembles and I feel a change in the atmosphere, like a door slamming shut on a windy day. Matt is still ranting once sound returns to the room, “-because I don’t feel safe in my own city, but you just showed up out of nowhere and fought aliens like it happens every-”

            “I think there was an open portal on the street,” I say in lieu of announcing “There was one in this room.”

            “See, that’s what I’m talking about. You didn’t used to be this weird.”

            I look at his angry, frightened face, still specked with blood. “I’ve been like this since we met.”

            “No, you haven’t.”

            I take off my coat, too warm now. “You used to call me all the time when you were at Brown. Now it takes an alien invasion for you to remember me.”

            “That’s because-” He stops himself.

            I listen for that fleeting thought, watching his demeanor change as he accepts I’ll be reading his mind. “What do you think of me, Matt? Why are you thinking that of me?”

            “You never told me what happened at Brown. I found your sweater and that was the last I heard of it. Then you’re at my apartment when I’m not there, and aliens attack New York.”

            Perhaps the portal has opened again because the air in the room feels different. “What the hell are you trying to say?”

            “Nothing.” He clenches his jaw. “But your friend just fought a ‘war’ in my school’s front yard.” His shoulders shake as he takes a breath. “And you don’t seem too bothered by it.”

            Vince’s ringtone goes off in my coat. I check both pockets before I remember the one inside. “Here, tell him you’re safe.”

            Matt takes the phone and turns toward the door. “Hey, man. Yeah, we’re both fine, just, sitting at my place. Sure.”

            He hands the phone over to me, saying, “Will SHIELD or whoever be long?”

            I put the phone to my ear and watch as he picks his up again to answer a text. I swallow. “Hey, Vince.”

            “Was it bad? You don’t sound okay.”

            I swallow again, pressing my tongue to the roof of my mouth. “No, it wasn’t- wasn’t as bad as last time. I-” Looking at Matt, I know I need to hang up. “I’ll be home soon.”

            Hanging up, I put my hand out. “Give it to me. It’s okay.”

            Matt is barely holding onto his phone at this point, and it simply drops into my hand. “They found his phone.”

            “Matt, I’m sorry.” I take him by the arm to steady him. “I’m so sorry. Sit- sit down.”

            “His stuff’s here,” Matt says, his mind still assuming his roommate would’ve taken it with him.

            An animal roar echoes in the distance, too far for Matt to hear. I bite my cheek hard and take his hand. The trucks are really rolling in now, and at least one of those vacuums I felt earlier was Thor’s departure.

            “Who’s going to tell his girlfriend?”

            They'll be swarming the school in a moment. There’s one helicopter. Another. “Matt, you call her. Here, I’ll call her, what’s her name?”

            As I’m scrolling through his contact list a helicopter thrums over us and Matt hunches his shoulders. I squeeze his hand, pulling it into my lap. “Deep breaths, Mattie. One after the other.” The girl’s phone begins to ring. “I won’t leave until you’re alright. Alright?”

            He shakes his head, but holds my hand tighter. “I’ve got a- I’ve got a friend who can stay the night.”

            The girl’s phone goes to voicemail. “Does he have any family you know?”

            “Ace, just go home. I’m fine, I’ll be fine.” He takes the phone and tries calling the girlfriend again.

            “You know you can come home anytime, right?” I recall Scott’s instruction to continuously remind Matt that the mansion is his home. “Your classes will probably be cancelled tomorrow anyway. You want to head to New York for the night?”

            He shakes his head, listening to the perpetual ringing of her mobile. “I can’t go to New York, Ace. I’m staying here.”

            “Alright,” I say quietly, letting go of his hand. “I don’t want to leave you, Matt.”

            He sighs. “I’ll check in with Scott later tonight so you know I’m okay. Alright?”

            He’s getting me off his back. “Alright, I’ll go. Be safe, Mattie.”

            Scowling at the voicemail, he dials again.

 

            A cosmic disturbance of that size cannot be expected to clear up in a moment. I head back into London twice to monitor the various rifts still left open. On the second day, among the carnage of spilt shipping containers, I find the roaring creature from earlier. Scaly, tusked, and the size of a tanker truck, the clearly unhappy realm-hopper observes me over a groaning container, and snarls.

            “Don’t you use that tone of voice with me.” I cross my arms, doing my best to judge by his appearance what sort of realm he might belong to. Thick skin, warm-blooded, a cross between a rhino and a whale. If I locate the right portal, hopefully I can get him home before SHIELD puts him down. Beasty hops over the unit to threaten me some more, advancing with all the friendliness of a rabid dog.

            “Sit.”

            No more difficult to control than other animals, he obeys, though with an obstinate huff.

            “Hoo-boy. I think I’ll name you Listerine.” I have him lower his head so I can study his eyes and teeth, turn his paws up so I can determine what sort of surfaces he treads on most. “You’re an ice puppy. Haven’t been eating people during your stay here, have you?”

            Like he can tell the difference.

            The nearest portal to a frozen wasteland is thankfully not too far. My own curiosity getting the best of me, I stepped in and out of the few portals I could easily reach just to see what else exists in this universe. The results were more than a little disconcerting.

            Doing my best to lead him down empty backstreets and away from prying SHIELD eyes, the oaf and I make it to the empty parking lot where his portal is. Arctic air has made nearby puddles solidify, so I walk tenderly over the slippery ground, envying the massive snowshoe feet of my charge. A reflection in a car’s windshield attracts my attention, and the odd whirring sound above our heads becomes louder.

            Immediately, I take over the creature’s dull mind so he doesn’t balk when Thor lands, which he does promptly in a dramatic, cape-billowing fashion. Rising to his feet, he points his hammer at Listy. “Where are you taking that?”

            “Home,” I glance sideways, “and his portal’s about to close up.”

            Listy sniffs the air and huffs impatiently. Thor looks sideways too, then at me. “Can you see it?”

            Listy huffs louder and begins ambling away until I tug on a fold of his skin. Pointing to the portal, I order him to walk toward it. Thor steps back as the massive creature grumbles his way back home, disappearing into empty space.

            “How did you know that was there?” Thor asks before looking around to make sure he doesn’t back into one.

            His presence bothers me. “I thought you left.”

            “I came back.” He points the hammer in the direction the animal disappeared. “Unfinished business with that fellow.”

            A breeze stirs, causing me to notice a long, brown hair caught in his chainmail. “You just came back for him, huh?”

            The warrior shrugs an armored shoulder and looks afar. “Well, other business as well, of course. How are Stark and the others?”

            I raise an eyebrow and watch the portal as it seals closed. “How soon do you think these will clear up?”

            “A fortnight should see them all but vanished. As soon as the realms move out of alignment, yours should be safe again.”

            Relatively speaking. “The pale guys. Who were they?”

            “The dark elves?” He flips his hammer in one hand and checks down an alley as a noise is heard. “They are- or rather were- an ancient race. Those were the last.”

            There’s a surprise. I wave at where the portal was. “And there aren’t any more angry, scaly lumps running around are there?”

            He crooks a brow. “I should assume not. Are you well?”

            “Outstanding.” I take out my phone. “There’s a portal on the next street over that leads to someplace desert-y. A bus will be driving through in a few minutes, and they’ll be more willing to redirect if you’re there.”

            Thor nods, content to have a task, and begins spinning his hammer. “Send the others my regards.”

            I smile cheerily, having no intention of doing any such thing.

           

            “That’s exactly what I’m talking about though- Don’t you shake your head at me, Banner, it’s happened twice now.” Tony sucks in his lips and presses his hands against the table. “Thor didn’t care to mention any other species that might be out to get us did he?”

            I rub my face with both hands. “For the last time, _no._ I’m going home. Don’t stress out while I’m gone. You’re worse than Bruce.”

            “Bruce is fine, I’ll have you know.” Bruce raises his eyebrows at me. “Bruce doesn’t stay up till sunrise fussing over suit schematics.”

            “God, then who was that other guy in the lab with me this morning?” Tony puts on a sarcastic look of terror.

            “Your reflection most likely.” I kick an empty soda can across the floor. “You boys both need sleep, and stop looking at the sky like it’s going to attack you. That’s no way to live.”

            “Laying off the Goose might help too,” Bruce adds, resting his chin in his hands and giving Tony a dry look.

            “Smirnoff, Mr. PhD.” Tony points to an unlabeled bottle across the room. “Smirnoff, or my name isn’t Ivanka Trump.”

            “Your name is Tony Stark, dipstick.”

            “No, no,” Bruce corrects me, “he had it right the first time.”

            “Right. Well,” I get up and hug my coat, “I rescued a snow beast and learned some British swear words. We’re good for now.”

            “You’re taking off?” Tony asks a little wildly. “I thought you’d-”

            “No, I have not moved in. I have a job and a life only an hour’s drive from here, and let’s not forget _I can teleport.”_ I run my tongue over my teeth. “It’s going to be fine.”

            Tony gives Bruce a meaningful look, and Bruce bows his head in response. “Yeah, Ace. I suppose it will.”

           

            I page through one of Vince’s textbooks as he retrieves our lunch orders, reconsidering my stance on not attending college. I should know more about the things he knows.

            “Provolone, extra peperoncini.” He sets my sub down in front of me. “Checked on Matt lately?”

“I visited his apartment this morning, but his roommate’s relatives were there collecting his things. I didn’t want to cause a scene.”

            “Why? Is Matt being a diva?” He puts a pickle slice on top of my sandwich.

            Chin in hand, I wonder where my appetite went as I look at the offering. Pigeons begin milling about our table. I crumble soft sourdough in my fist and scatter it onto the concrete. “He was just a pill the whole way. I even took the ingrate back to get his stuff before SHIELD confiscated it, and he still chewed me out, said the aliens only came because of me.”

            Vince watches the pigeons too for a second. “He’s just never seen your mission face.”

            Mystified, I toss some shredded lettuce onto the ground. “Define ‘mission face.’”        

            “You know, the you you become in a dangerous situation. You’re two different people,” Vince pauses to take a drink of soda, “the intense one who goes on missions, and the one who stays home and takes care of everybody.”

            That stuns me. “Do you think I scared him?”

            “You scared the crap out of me when you and Logan rescued me from brethren. You know when Matt’s nervous he looks for someone to blame.”

            When the helicopters were flying low over London it reminded me of something. “Has he ever told you about what happened at the mansion before you and I lived there?”

            “The soldiers? Yeah, he’s mentioned it before. I thought he was making it up.”

            I don’t see how that couldn’t leave an impression on somebody. “Well, I’m glad he talks to you. I’ve clearly started to drive him nuts.”

            Content, Vince takes a massive bite of sandwich before the conversation can continue. The tips of his ears are red, and his gloves are tucked into the crest of his zipper while he eats, leaving his fingers and knuckles to turn rosy. Matt and Madge’s hands turn deathly white in the cold, and mine used to get cracked and dry. I look at my two hands wishing I knew for certain what Matt was afraid of that day. Being in that study with all those windows he would’ve witnessed the skirmish firsthand, and I suppose I didn’t quite offer the measure of security he was looking for. I did abandon him to rescue others.

            “Hey,” I eat the pickle slice, “let’s you and me focus on things not end-of-the-world related, ‘kay?”

            His eyes smile as he chews. _You thrive on end-of-the-world related._

            “Yes, but the students need me, you and Matt need me, and I shouldn’t stretch myself too thin trying to save the rest of human-” Two women pass by us on the sidewalk and I watch them go by. They aren’t mutant, but they are something else.

            “Babe, it would be morally wrong for us to keep you all to ourselves.” He shakes his drink and makes a mildly irritated sound at the amount of ice inside. “You’re vastly more useful to humanity than any of us. That’s why everyone wants you on their team.”

            I slouch and watch him eat. “I’ll stick with the X-Men, but…my priority is helping you guys. Matt’s practically disowned his family for music, and you’ve got that summer internship coming up. I need you both to be happy.”

            “Yes, but I don’t want you to be- Aw, c’mon.” The contents of his sandwich slide out the back.

            “I’ll be unhappy if I drive my family away by acting like other lives matter more.” I start to wrap up my sandwich. “Come on, it’s too cold out here and those people are waiting for our table.”

            Snowmelt rushes down the gutter as we carry our lunches to a campus building. Other pedestrians show only their eyes above scarves and turned-up collars, but I refrain from following suit. The women who passed by the table weren’t even the strangest scent I’ve been picking up lately. There’s another type I keep bumping into and each time it sends a prickle up my spine. Earth’s getting crowded.

            I keep note of Vince just behind me, sticking to our side of the sidewalk as foot traffic goes steadily by. “Vin.”

            “‘Sup?” 

            “You’re cute.”  

            Too cold to giggle, he kicks the back of my leg. Reaching our destination, I wait for him to make it through the spinning doors first before following closely after.


	62. Chapter 62

            The hallway light casts long shadows across the floor of the girls’ bedroom, illuminating glints of color where beads from a long ago broken necklace became embedded in the carpet. Megan tightens her grip around my waist, her sobs subsiding into hiccups that make the mattress squeak. I stroke her hair, fruit-scented and damp from a recent shower. Kristina, her roommate, keeps a hand on her shoulder.

            “Did she say where it happened?” I ask.

            Kristina shakes her head. “She covered her ears when I tried to sign to her, so I think she was still hearing it then.”

            “Any idea why it was bad?” 

            Kristina sighs and in a low voice says, “I think someone got shot.”

            Diagnosed as completely deaf, Megan’s skeptical parents were relieved when Xavier told them she is capable of hearing…sounds occurring miles away from her. I give Megan a squeeze to get her attention, but she shakes her head. Kristina and I share a tired look.

            “You can go back to bed,” I tell her. “Jean’s on her way.”

            Kristina looks reluctantly at Megan before climbing off the bed backwards and heading to her own.

            “Very bad,” Jean says when she sees Megan wrapped around me snoring lightly.

            I nudge Megan awake so she can see Jean. “Kristina thinks she heard a murder.”

            “It’s probably someone’s TV again,” Jean says with a tone of irritation. “The trash they air these days.”

            Replacing me as a comfort object, Jean touches her fingers to Megan’s temples, and closes her eyes. Soon, with furrowed brow, Jean withdraws her touch. “Look for her earplugs.”

            I open Megan’s bedside drawer and rummage through hair accessories before finding them. As we tuck her back in with the earplugs hopefully doing their job, Jean smiles at me. “Thank you for sticking around. You’ve been a great help.”

            I busy myself with rearranging the bedcovers. “So? What happened?”

            “A woman was shot,” she tells me truthfully, “but help arrived.” Jean brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “She needs to keep those in.”

            I glance at the neon-colored earplugs. “She’ll take them out during the night.”

            “No, we told her she can’t do that anymore. Kristina deserves her sleep.”

            A student tosses and turns in the boys’ dorms. “Cody’s having a nightmare again.”

            “And Frankie is haunting the kitchen,” Jean sighs. “I’ll have Scott check on Cody, you get Frankie back in bed.”

            By the time I talk the latter down from the fridge, not a peep of nightmarish chaos has come from the boys’ dorms. Climbing into my own bed, fingers and toes chilly from crossing the frozen lawn barefoot, a pair of warm arms doesn’t hesitate to pull me close. Vince sighs in his sleep, oblivious to how calming the sound is, and I kiss his shoulder and curl up tight.

 

            April showers gave way to downpour this morning, and now smears of mud mar the floor of the foyer. As Storm tracks down the culprit, the student janitor and I scrub up the mess. When we’ve wiped off the last trace of mud, I take the dirty mop heads back to the janitorial closet while he goes over our work. Hearing the knock on the front door, I wait for him to make the light jog over to where I am. “I heard it.”

            He’s skittish around strangers.

            Rain drums furiously against the pavement outside, idly threatening that it could drown us if it wanted to. Brush mud off my jeans, push the abandoned bucket out of sight, and put on my hospitable face, knowing that since no car pulled up our visitor is most likely a runaway. Fingers clasped around the door handle, I pause to listen to the person standing outside. My face falls.

            Opening the door partway, I brace for an attack. The old man looks at me squarely, water streaming off the edges of his felt hat and onto his shoulders. He lifts his head carefully, attempting to appear dignified while keeping water from spilling into his coat collar.

“Believe me, dear, this isn’t how I imagined it either.” 

            I have to let him in. An octogenarian left standing in the rain? Yet, the moment I do I risk being responsible for whatever havoc he wreaks.

            Apparently capable of reading minds himself, the old man gives me a hard look. “If I wasn’t welcome here he would’ve stopped me before I made it past the open gate.”

            Storm, perhaps noticing the change in temperature, gives me a crooked brow as she reenters the foyer. Giving her my own perplexed look, I step back so she can view our guest. If things go wrong it will better if Storm is present. The temperature drops further as her expression ensures a tactful solution is not to be had.

            I repeat the safeguard, “Xavier let him come this far.”

            “He didn’t tell _me_ ,” is Storm’s equally poignant response.

            While that’s not reassuring, I direct my main concern to her. _Pneumonia._

            She sets her jaw.         

            Opening the hall closet, I pull out a large coat, one whose owner no one is quite sure of. Storm helps the man out of his own sodden trench coat, and hangs it on a hook over a rug. She looks at me. “Can you-”           

            “Watch your classroom?”

            “No, call Scott.”

            “Who will watch his classroom?”

            Storm’s stony expression betrays a hint of perturbation.

            “I hope I’m not causing a stir,” the old ass says aloud.

            “Go to your class,” I tell her, suppressing my irritation. “I’ll call Scott and watch him.”

            She turns to leave. “Don’t listen to a word he says.”

            Then she’s gone, and I’m alone in the hallway with Magneto.

            “Is Charles giving you your orders?” he asks.

            A double-edged inquiry. If Xavier has given me “orders” it implies I’m a pawn. If Xavier hasn’t given instruction, I should feel uncertain.

            “You don’t have your helmet,” I say. “I’m sure he’s already in charge of the situation.”

            Then, taking him by one lean elbow, I gently lead him to a bench where we both sit down. Sitting beside him temporarily makes us equal. Seeming to accept this minor truce, he sighs and sinks into the dry coat.

            The man knows how to keep his thoughts in check, so I’m left guessing as to their subject. Storm’s warning was needless as Magneto doesn’t say anything while we wait. It’s been years since he had an interest in recruiting me- if ever he did- and over a year since his goons had any success in crippling me. I half expect him to bring up Vince, to attempt some kind of sideways insult intended to undermine our relationship, but for what purpose?

            “How much longer are you going to be here?” he finally asks.

            “Until someone relieves me of you.”

            He cocks one matted, silver brow. “And I’d heard you were astute.”

            “When it suits me,” I reply, paying attention to the sound of Scott’s shoes across the wool carpets of the second story. “May I ask the same of you?”

            The old man raises both brows. “Not much longer now.”

            I smile placidly. “Longer than you will be though.”

            He smiles in return.

 

            The plastic lips of the Zip-Loc bag refuse to close around the unyielding neck of the toothbrush. I throw it in the overnight bag anyway on top of a pair of Vince’s socks. His favorite pajama tee goes into the bag as well, and I begin rooting through his dresser for a second set of clothes. Logan sidesteps into the room and closes the door. “Where is he?”

            “At school,” I say, surprised he hasn’t noticed Vince’s regular absence from the mansion during weekdays. “I told him we’re staying in Manhattan tonight.”

            “You tell him why?”

            “Of course.” Vince instituted a policy where I don’t withhold truths just because they might upset him.

            “He take it badly?”

            “He’ll be fine.” Logan, however, I lie to. “What do you need?”

            “Your room in the stables. Hoping to avoid becoming a metal puppet while we’re humoring a sadist.”

            I brush off the implication that it’s happened before. “Yeah, you can sleep out there.”

            He tucks both hands into his pockets. “He tried to talk to you, didn’t he?”

            “Yeah,” I shut the dresser drawer, “but nothing I couldn’t handle.”

            Logan watches me pack. “He knows you’ve got an in with Stark’s team.”

            “He implied as much.” Asking how long I intended to stay here, as though I’d abandon the school with him still in it.

            “You could’ve left us a long time ago.” Logan rubs the spaces between his knuckles. “Could’ve found work in California if I hadn’t gone and messed things up between you and Stark.”

            “I was never going to leave you.” I turn my head. “I thought that was obvious.”

            Logan grunts. “Well, then I missed my chance to see it. You’re over in Vinny’s camp now.” He jerks a nod at the room we’re in. “Doesn’t matter what any of us want now.”

            “Sucks to be you.” I tuck my hands into my back pockets. The ripple of psychic energy I’ve been expecting hums inside my skull. “The team’s meeting in Xavier’s study.”

            Logan mutters some dark oath and swings the bedroom door open.

           

            With a deep sigh, Erik- as Xavier calls him- scans all our faces with a beleaguered look. “The Brotherhood has dissolved.”

            Varied reactions are withheld as we retain an unaffected silence.

            “Continued raids by SHIELD have diminished our numbers, though the incident in London has kept them distracted.” Erik pauses to take a sip of tea, his hands trembling. He’s dressed in a fresh set of clothes I don’t recognize, so I conclude them to be ancient pieces from Xavier’s own wardrobe.

            “Roughly two weeks ago,” he begins again, “we made contact with a telepathic brother inside SHIELD’s remote detainment center. He’s capable of long-distance communication.”

            Scott mentions the name of the man, and Erik confirms it.

            “The man was paranoid.” Wrinkles in Erik’s face deepen. “He kept insisting there was danger on the rise, yet could not offer any details. We asked where he was, how he was being treated, had he met any of the others who’d been taken. Our questions went unanswered until on the fourth day he mentioned one of our stolen brethren, a hacker of some talent-”

            Erik stops midsentence, a hard look on his face as though just realizing something. “He mentioned the hacker and said, ‘They’ve found a way. Run.’ ”

            “You think the two subjects are related?” Xavier asks.

            “Well, I did not receive the message myself. Our receiver- the young woman you and I met in Taiwan,” Erik explains, “said the mentioning was offhanded, almost accidental. I suppose it possible he found something confidential and-”

            “Great, he found something,” Logan’s impatience has reached its limit, “now get to the part where it matters to us.”

            Erik turns that intense gaze on Logan, and I start to understand why resorting to magnetic puppetry might seem desirable. “Our receiver was deeply shaken by the contact.” Looking at Jean, he says, “You know how it is when a message is conveyed via thought, how emotions do not lie like words do. Our contact went silent following this warning, but his paranoia infected the few telepaths I had remaining. They fled. Knowing without them we’d soon be discovered either by Charles or SHIELD, I ordered the rest to disband for their own safety. Then I came here.”

            “Better the enemy you know,” Hank says, clasping his fingers as he leans forward. “Unfortunately, you would never allow SHIELD to disarm you without significant losses on their side. Exposed or not, dissolution sounds overly drastic for you.”

            Xavier rubs his chin. “Tell them the rest.”

            Erik takes a shuddering breath, and the sharp ears in the room discern the toll inclement weather has had on him. “Since receiving the ‘cure’, of which young Ace was witness-”

            Oh good, he believes me to be young.

            “-my powers have waned. I could no longer lead my brethren even if we did regroup. Charles knows everything I’ve said to be truth, as he observed the disbandment through Cerebro. Did you not, Charles?”

            Xavier does not acknowledge this statement beyond raising an eyebrow.

            Scott turns his gaze on me for a moment, clearly recalling the details of our mission to that lab. Turning back to Erik, he asks, “How can you be sure the telepaths didn’t just leave because they knew you’d been ‘cured’?”

            “You think I haven’t spent enough time around prying minds to know how to censor my own thoughts? Besides, my people respected me and did not tread where they had no business going. My abilities remain, but barely.”

            “None of that sounds sure,” Jean contends. “If your contact did not contact you directly then how can you be sure of what your telepaths actually heard?”

            Erik purses his lips and looks at Xavier. “Do they question you this much?”

            Xavier smiles softly and nods. With a tired sigh, Erik leans back in his chair, looking his age. “My brothers did not question me, and they certainly did not lie to me. In a congregation of telepaths I had a system in place for rooting out problems.”

            Biting my tongue, I divert my attention to the sound of students  in the cafeteria.

            “We don’t need to know how you ran your camp,” Logan says in a surly tone. “Just tell us why we should give a damn.”

            “Frightened telepaths are a good indication of things to come,” Emma rejoins. “If one message was enough to lead them to defy _him-“_

            “Things to come from which direction?” Logan asks spitefully. “SHIELD? If they were clearing his lot off the map I’m not really moved by complaints. Look, just face it your people knew you had no powers so they made up a story about contacting an inmate to give themselves an excuse to leave. Your system failed and you came crawlin’ back home, end of discussion.” With that, he gets up and stalks out of the room.

            I’d do anything at this point to get out of here too and see Vince. Storm puts a hand on my bouncing knee.

            “I did not say I believed the warning,” Erik says after some time. “I said I believed the receiver. She’s been one of my most loyal followers, and few have shown purer zeal for mutant prosperity…”

            He continues to defend his dominance, his tone and diction gratingly reminiscent of individuals from my youth. I listen for Logan, to a student’s lame joke, anything to get Magneto’s credenda out of my head. Eventually, Xavier catches my eye, and cuts him off.

 

            Even when he wasn’t speaking, Magneto’s condescension was caustic. Normally I might find him laughable, but his speeches wormed their way into emotions sealed off long ago. I finish packing, check a text from Tony saying Bruce is the only one home tonight, and teleport to Vince’s room to collect the bag from earlier.

            Two hours later, Vince is sitting at the small, glass-topped desk that appeared in my suite one day. Other alterations have been made to the lighting levels and temperature as Tony continues to make the tower habitable. Stepping into Bruce’s room once as I helped him with a chore, I noticed the paint colors were softer and the furniture sparser than in my room. I assume each bedroom has been personalized this way.

            The tapping of the pencil against the desktop started a full two minutes ago and hasn’t let up. The program his class uses for design work is on a computer upstairs, but technology has the tendency of frustrating him when he’s like this. Papers are strewn over the bed and onto the floor as he tries to tackle a semester-long project in one night. I’m doing my best to help by inking in final design concepts, but there miserably little else I can do. It’s situations like this that make me wish I’d broken our rule and said nothing about Magneto.

            “Vin?” I set finished work aside to let the ink dry. “What would you like for dinner?”

            He turns his head toward me then away again. “Uh, I don’t care. Whatever you want.”

            I twist the cap off a water bottle. “Babe, you need to relax or this night’s only going to get worse.”

            “I’m fine.” His pencil scratches roughly over the butcher paper.

            “We both know that’s not true.”

            Scratching his neck with the eraser, he ignores me. I give him a second or two before trying a different approach. _Vinny, it’s alright._

            “It’s not _alright_ ,” he says. “Just- let me finish this, okay?”

            I roll my wrist to relieve cramping, and take a breath before pushing him once more. “Vinny-”

            “He’s _in_ _my house_.” He gestures angrily. “The soulless liar just walked in.”

            “I know, I’m sorry. Xavier still considers him family, so I couldn’t just-”

            “No, no, I’m not mad at you.” He sighs darkly. “It’s the fact that he _expected_ to be let in. That he can just walk all over that place like it’s his, and I can’t- I just- He has the power to make _you_ open the door for him,” Vince snaps. “Things were finally going great, and-”

            “Hey,” I sit forward, “c’mere.”

            He clenches his fist around the pen, and glances over his shoulder. “Not now.”

            “Just a couple seconds. Please?”

            Sighing through his nose, he pushes his chair back. I make room for him on the bed, and he kneels sullenly before me until I take him by the shoulders and drop him onto his back. He gasps and grabs my arms reflexively, but I kiss him on the cheek. Straddling him, I run my hands down his arms, getting him to let out a long breath. I lift his shirt and run my hands down his torso, loving his tangibility, the wholeness of him. Pressing my fingers in gently, I count his ribs as they rise and fall under my fingertips.

            I lower my face to his and soon his kisses have an urgency to them. His hand clasps tenderly around my neck, his thumb stroking my throat. I leave one more sweet kiss on his cheek before brushing his ear with my lips.

            “Now, finish your assignment. You can come to bed when you’re done.”

            “Screw that, my professor will understand.” He pecks my cheek hastily. “I’ll be able to think straighter afterwards.”

            I laugh. “Your thinking capabilities turn to mush after sex. Finish your homework first.”

            “My homework is not as important as this. There will always be homework.” When he sees I’m still not buying, he adds. “It’s half done anyway, and I’ve got two more days.”  

            “Slacker,” I roll us onto my back and he snuggles me without hesitation. We make out, he takes his shirt off, and then lying down on top of me again, he sighs and does nothing.

            “What’s wrong?” I ask.

            “Nuthin,” he says with sincerity. “I just decided this is nicer.”

            “Okay,” I kiss whatever part of him is nearest.

            Wrapping a lock of my hair around his finger, he lets it unwind slowly before repeating the process. At some point Tony sound-proofed my room. I don’t recall telling him about my sensitive hearing, but Bruce might have. In any case, it blocks out the noise of the city which, no matter how far below us it may be, still sometimes manages to clutter my brain this many stories up. So, I listen to the sound of Vince’s pulse, the gentle crinkle of one of his papers lying below the air vent, and the silky sound my hair makes when it slides off his finger.

            “I don’t know what I’m doing, Ace.” His tone implies a subject beyond this room. “My classes feel…pointless.”

            “Yeah?” I play with his ear. “Why’s that?”

            “I don’t know. I never wanted to go to college in the first place, but when I got back it was...”

            “The opposite direction.”

            “Yes. It’s like only going to church after you’ve done something bad. Only Xavier suggested college.”

            “He thought it would help.”

            “It did, and I’m grateful for that.” He scratches his cheek, in need of a shave. “But it’s not fulfilling anymore. Once I jump through all the necessary hoops to get the degree, eventually get the job I want- if that ever happens- what next? What did I accomplish? I’m still only earning money to pay taxes I shouldn’t owe, spend on things I don’t want, and then die having achieved nothing.”

            This dilemma again. In high school he was afraid to conform, and now that it’s happening he’s putting on the brakes. “What do you think counts as achievement? What do you want to have accomplished by the time you die?”

            He thinks on this for a minute, returning to coiling my hair. “To have helped people. Help them live better lives, help _them_ to feel accomplished.”

            “Then we’ll find a way to do that.”

            “Yes, but…” He pauses for a long time trying to put a finger on what he’s feeling.

            I trace his spine, knowing without looking the outline of his unfinished tattoo. “You want your help to last.”

            Vince lifts himself onto his elbows. “You’ve mentioned before that people you’ve saved are never really saved. They go home to crappy lives, or just go hurt someone else. You keep their lives from being cut short, but you can’t improve them.”

            Did the appearance of Magneto trigger this existential crisis, or have I been headed here all day? “So you want to resolve all life’s problems?”

            “Don’t you?” he asks.

            “I wouldn’t trust myself to. It would require changing the hearts and minds of every individual on the planet. Then you’d have to stop all diseases, climate change, and find a way to keep people from growing old and dying. People can’t even agree on which religion is right let alone stop being cruel to each other. And after all that, aliens will invade again.”

            Vince grumbles and presses his face into my belly. “Stop being right. Stop being a pessimist like me.”

            “Pessimism would be all those things and a ‘we’re doomed’ at the end. I don’t think we’re doomed, but we are more or less in a lifeboat in the middle of the Pacific with a leak in the hull and Jaws trying to nibble us every time we reach over the side.”

            “Pessimistic and adorable,” he says, “because the idea of Jaws nibbling anything.”

            “Daintily, he nibbles daintily. Like a little girl at a tea party.”

            “I love you.” He kisses my stomach through my shirt. “Let’s not leave this room ever. The world is scary and difficult, and I have to pay taxes in April.”

            “Sh,” I cover his mouth, nearly poking him in the eye and making him giggle, “never speak of them again. That word shall not be spoken in this room.”

            “Tathses,” he mumbles between my fingers.

            I pinch his nose. “Are you coming home in the morning?”  

            He sobers instantly. “Only if the sociopath is gone.”

            “He won’t be. He’d rather task Xavier’s good graces a little further than do the right thing.”

            _And what about when the feds find out he’s there? If he’s weak now, he should be turned in before we all get charged with aiding and abetting._

            I’ve thought of that. “I’m sure Scott’s already brought it up. Xavier has us to protect. Erik must know that.”

            “Which is why he comes with tales of Armageddon, trying to scare us into keeping him around because ‘mutants stand together’. God,” he pushes himself forward and lays his head against my chest, “I thought this bullshit would end when I came home.”    

            I run my fingers through his hair, willing him to relax a little. “Hey, only happiness resides in this room. He’s not in here with us, so don’t let him be in here,” I grip his scalp briefly.

            With a breathy sigh, he squeezes me. “I’m sorry, gorgeous.”

            “You’re fine, babe.” I stroke the tip of his ear.

            “Did he ask about me?”

            “No. Not around me. Vince,” I wriggle to get him to loosen his grip, “we can’t hide up here for too long. I have to get back to work, and eventually you’ll want to go home.”

            “I know.” He brushes my cheek with the back of his hand. “I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of staying away anyway.”

            Bad memories of his begin to rise up, and I brace myself. “Hey, don’t think about that. Look where you are now.”

            Too late, he’s curling up around me, hunching his shoulders as the past hurts him physically. “I let you down. I let the school down, I let down the people we hurt- I’m so sorry.”

            Inside his head, I push ugly things out of the way, attempting to sabotage this destructive train of thought. If the memories dwell for too long, his family resurfaces, and then I’ll be consoling him until dawn. When tears begin to seep through my t-shirt, it becomes impossible to sustain a calm presence. “Vince, look up, let me see you.”

            He obeys, raising himself onto his elbows again and letting me wipe away his tears.

            “Look at this amazing person. He’s a good, honest person who wants to do what’s right.” I keep his eyes on mine even when he tries to look away. “He doesn’t believe it, but he’s stronger than he thinks.”

            He only watches me miserably while taking deep, shuddering breaths.

            “I wish he’d believe it, wish he’d see why I’m so proud of him.”

            Vince closes his eyes, and I wipe their corners with my thumbs before leaning up to kiss his forehead. With a despondent groan, he once more rests his head on my shoulder, tucking his hands beneath me, and turning his face away.

            “You make me feel like a whole person.” I comb his hair with my fingers some more. “I’ve spent my entire life looking for a place to belong, and it was you the whole time.” I kiss the top of his head. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

            “I’m weak,” he contests. “I’m going to get old, and tired, and selfish- but don’t let me let you down again. Don’t let me drive you insane.”

            I sigh through my nose. “I doubt you’ll be the cause of my insanity.”

             With a nudge I get him to roll off so we can lie side by side. He closes his eyes, and I dim the lights. It’s 1am and the paper under the vent went silent a few minutes ago. I brush my fingers through his hair, and trace the outline of his jaw. Closing my eyes, I touch his temple, and finding a memory dwelling at the forefront, relieve him of it.

            He’s in his bedroom, the third one. Glass shatters in the living room as the argument reaches its height. It’s Mom and Ray, the second in a long line of useless boyfriends. Vince does the usual, climbs between the bed and the wall where he covers his ears. Even so, his meager telepathy tells him Michaela’s on the other side of the wall, tapping it quietly to get his attention. Biting his tongue, he stays put. She can’t stay four forever.

            I open my eyes when he takes my hand and watches me unblinking. Four kisses on my palm, and one for each fingertip. He then presses my hand to his cheek, and we lay still a long time. I watch as he drifts off, and my own body begins to succumb as well. Very soon though, a heavy grip makes me flinch.

            “Hey, hey.” Vince, propped on one elbow, stares down at me, holding my wrist. “You were having a bad dream.”

            I close my eyes, heart racing, and try to fall back asleep. Vince lies down again, still holding my hand.


	63. Chapter 63

            A chill breeze contains the retreating bite of winter, while a beaming sun promises a generous summer. The birds are prattling constantly, too thick to know that this kind of weather only lasts so long. Perhaps, they’re just making the most of it.

            Erik Lensherr remains an inmate of the school, hiding in an extra room away from the students and more irksome members of staff. March has spilled into late May now, and the heavy snows that once gave Vince a weak excuse to stay in town are long extinct. Not a peep out of Tony about his quiet houseguest who JARVIS knows by name and regularly backs up school projects for. I told my dear betrothed that he was going to get fat living in the lap of luxury and watching TV on a clearer than water screen the size of my bed, but so far nothing can get him to come near the school while Magneto resides in it.

            Picking up my phone from the slatted bench I’m seated on, I wait a few milliseconds for the response text, and barely suppress a grin. “Thought that might do it.”

            Vince’s reflection bounces off glass holoscreens in the tower’s laboratory as he bounds over to the elevator to greet me. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

            “If I was I succeeded.” I wave to Bruce across the room. Jumping us to the mansion’s kitchen, I hold my arms out like showing off a prize car. “Happy birthday.”

            “Damn, woman.” Vince grins lopsidedly. “You know my birthday’s in December, right?”

            “I’ll never remember that. Take it when you can get it, Detmer.” I sniff and look at the abomination of nature before us. “Pretty sure I did it wrong.”

            “Yeah, I think the frosting goes on the cake and not all over your face.” He leans in to kiss my sticky cheek. “You smell good though.”

            “The baking part wasn’t hard,” I tell him, “but getting the little bastards out of the pan in one piece is a hassle.”

            He nods and wipes a finger through the frosting. “The architectural integrity of the cake does appear to be unsound. I’d say a demolition is in order.”

            Armed with forks and milk, we march the cake off to my bedroom for a messy execution. Only halfway through we run out of milk and are sick to our stomachs.

            “But the point is, now I know how to make cake,” I say.

            Vince, lying on his back in the bed, lifts his hand in the air. “And I thought you couldn’t get any better.” 

            My phone rings. “Now you just have to step up _your_ game. Hello?”

            “Hey,” a very sober-sounding Tony clears his throat, “go on your homepage real quick. I just want to make sure we’re both seeing the same thing.”

            I snap my fingers at the laptop on the desk, and Vince hastily trades it for the cake platter. “It’s not aliens again is it?”

            “Just, open your homepage.”

            Pulling up the browser, it’s instantly obvious that the wall of news has been overtaken by something dramatic. “What is all this?”

            “I’m seen some of it before,” Tony answers, “it’s all SHIELD.”

            “Yeah, I’m getting that,” various links carry the emblem along with headlines that would incite even the mildest of conspiracy theorists, “but what does it mean? Did they get righteously hacked?”    

            “Is this like Wiki-leaks again?” Vince asks, listening in as he scrolls through the news on his phone. “What’s HYDRA?”

            I stare at the article he’s pulled up. “They’re a- they were- Tony what is HYDRA? Hacktivists or some kind of neo-Nazi comeback?”

            “Can’t tell yet, but the news cycle took a hit about five minutes ago, and more information keeps rolling in. I’ll take a wild swing and say all of SHIELD’s deep dark secrets have just been dumped onto the world wide web.”

            “And you’ve already tried accessing SHIELD’s-”

            “There’s nothing there, don’t waste your time. What’s that?” There’s a lull as someone speaks to him on the other end. “Reports from Washington say the Triskelion’s being evacuated.”

            “The what?”

            “A,” Vince taps my arm and holds out his phone, “what are those?”

            Three airborne carriers, filmed from below, hover motionless in a pale blue sky. The anxious background babble denotes that the filming in taking place in an American parking lot, and I detect three east coast accents.

            “They’re helicarriers,” Tony answers as though telling the time, “and you remember when you broke into SHIELD HQ? That was the Triskelion.”

            Vince raises an eyebrow at this news, but my stomach does a backflip. “A few hundred people work in the Triskelion.”

            “Whoa, they’re moving,” Vince uses the same tone of voice he does when a shadow looms in a horror movie. “I do not like those things.”

            “Tony,” I scowl at the computer as the page reloads, “we’re coming back to the tower, the internet connection out here is crap.”

            “You know where we’ll be,” he replies distractedly.

 

            In the coming minutes, we watch something psychotic unfold on one of the many screens in the laboratory. Tony scrambles in the background, three video conferences going at once, while in Washington the helicarriers open fire on one another. Bruce leaves the room once beads of sweat build on his forehead, but Vince watches with a desensitized gaze as the three carriers begin their rapid descent.

            Looking away from the impending crash, I ask, “Any contact with our-?”

            “Haven’t heard from any of them in weeks,” is Tony’s clipped response, ending two calls and putting Pepper on mutual hold. “But they tried to kill Cap yesterday, and arrested him and Romanoff today.”

            Vince swears breathily, and I risk a glance at the screen, the Triskelion obscured by black smoke and debris. Helicopters hover like houseflies, and stadium-sized portions of the carriers sink into the rising river.

            “Um, To-Tony?” Bruce steps back into the room holding a tablet. “You said SHIELD did you that favor when Obadiah died?”

            The muscles in Tony’s face go stiff, and he stalks over to Bruce’s screen. I in turn take over one of his.

            “You just found this?” Tony asks.

            “On Reddit,” Bruce admits softly.

            I suck in my breath. “We have to go.”

            “Wait-” Tony gets to me before I can change the screen. Seeing the content, he bites his lip. “Look, what’ll happen is because there’s _so much_ information glutting the system, people will cling to their favorites and forget the rest.”

“I think a school of mutant kids will be somebody’s favorite.”

            Without asking, I drop Vince off at his next class early. An argument ensues because now he insists on returning to the mansion, and when I finally convince him to stay we’re both ticked off.

            At home, most of the school already knows about SHIELD’s destruction if not the current discussions about the school itself. Yet, Xavier and the team brush that off, saying it’s not the first time we’ve been the center of attention.

            “Choppers were filming the place back in ’05,” Logan curtails. “We’re old news.”

            “You think this is what Magneto’s people saw coming?” Scott asks as he glares at the monitors in front of us.

            “Like rats abandoning ship?” Logan smirks. “SHIELD wasn’t their ship, what do they care?”

            “Many of their own were being held by SHIELD,” Jean points out.

            Several heads nod, but Logan and I look at each other immediately.

            “If SHIELD’s truly fallen.”

            “Then who’s lookin’ after the deviants?” he finishes.

            When my cell rings again, I step out of the room. “Have you found a way in?”

            “That I have. Unfortunately, I don’t know how many HYDRA agents are listening in.”

            “Agents?”

            “Subterfuge, urchin. I don’t have a lot to go on, but a little bird tells me there were sleepers throughout the agency. The Triskelion was the head of the beast, now all other SHIELD facilities are having similar implosions.”

            I look back into the room as the team starts planning a hectic week. “So, HYDRA has control of SHIELD’s communication systems. Who has control of their detention facilities? And I mean specifically the ones for ‘gifted’ criminals.”

            Tony laughs painfully. “I love having you around to remind me the fire is twice as big.”

 

            A rug similar to the one in my room is tucked under the IKEA desk, gouged trails showing the routine of the metal-footed chair. Kitty’s hair is haphazardly restrained with a purple band, wild curls springing out here and there. Hunched over her laptop, she’s spent the last eight minutes lecturing various online entities, her lash ranging from random bloggers to the FCC.

            “Rising Tide? Fat lot of good they did- just look at this mess.” She pauses in her furious typing to take a drink of juice. “I don’t know what back channel Stark’s on, but he’s right about implosions. There are S.O.S. calls from all over the planet, it’s miserable.”

            The bell rings and we both glance at the time. I revisit the shortlist of codenames she’s scavenged, crucial SHIELD facilities all currently undergoing turmoil. “None of these sound familiar. Maybe if I had joined SHIELD I would know what’s going on.”

            “Then you’d have also known people in those ships,” she says somberly. “You’d be devastated.”

            I glance sideways at her to see if that was actually a read on me, or just introspection. 

            “Here it is,” she announces. “You were looking for the Index?”

            “Find out who’s on it.”

            She scrolls down the page of the file sharing site she’s on. “Oy. Encoded. It’ll take all night.”

            “Then I’ll pick up wherever you leave off.” My phone rings and I check the caller ID. “Send me a copy, I’ll be back in a sec.”

             Out on the terrace, I pick up the phone to hear Bruce speaking. “Bruce?”

            “They found Cap,” he says hastily. “He was on one of the helicarriers when it went down.”

            I tilt my head back, wishing the starlings would shut the hell up. “Do we know where Romanoff and Barton are?”

            “Romanoff is the one that found him. He’s critical, but they’re getting him to a hospital. Tony’s heading to Washington now.”

            He fills me in on everything an Agent Hill related to them, that HYDRA sent those carriers up, that Natasha emptied the conspiracy onto the net, and that Cap was onboard in an effort to bring them down.

            “Sorry,” I apologize, “I’ve been ignoring all that ‘Insight’ garbage. Still, no word on Barton?”

            “Honestly, we forgot to ask.” A heavy pause tells me Bruce is doing that thing where he purses his lips trying to think of the least difficult way to say something. “I don’t think he’s HYDRA, Ace.”

            “If he’s not, then he’s either obliviously carrying out a mission or HYDRA’s already dispensed of him.” I grip the railing and stare up at the blank, endless sky. “What should we be doing?”

There’s a mirthless chuckle. “Tony told me to stay put and not turn green. I don’t think that applies to you.”

            “No, it does,” I relax my grip, “and there are other problems here.”

            “Well, give me something to do then. Tony said your wifi doesn’t work?”

            “It manages. I asked him to find out where SHIELD’s powered individuals’ detainment center is, did he get anywhere with that?”

            “Y-yes, actually. Hang on.” He walks away from the mic, says something either to himself or an assistant, and returns. “It’s somewhere south of the equator, codename ‘The Fridge’. H-hang on a second.”

            He leaves again, and I grind my teeth impatiently. When he returns I say, “Bruce, you keep leaving, what’s going on?”

            Impatient himself, he replies, “There’s a SHIELD hub in Europe that’s fighting it out right now. I guess it’s where all agents take a breather between missions because it has twice as many personnel as the Triskelion. Tony and I are trying to keep track of who’s winning- Barton might be there.”

            “Damn it.” I put the phone out of earshot and swear some more. One Avenger in the hospital, and another most likely dead. “What else do you know about the Fridge?”

            “Nothing, Ace. It’s far away and probably having the same internal struggle the rest of them are. I’m sorry.” 

            “Don’t be sorry, just,” I release a pent up breath, “we’re not going to stress out.”

            There’s a silent pause on his end before an understanding, “Take care. I’ll call you if I find out more.”

           

            It’s business as usual at Xavier’s. As a member of staff I am thereby part of the act we put on whenever something tumultuous is going on in the world. There’s a ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ sign in the library that’s been there for years, but it’s times like these where I feel its original purpose is intended.

            Kitty and I both have to take a break from our research into The Index to do our jobs. I watch her through the library window, having an outdoor counseling session with a troubled student, her expression nothing but friendly and empathetic. Meanwhile the students I tutor are uncomfortably aware of my distraction, and my attempts to mask it feel phony.

            That evening, after Vince and I have made up and he’s asleep in my bedroom, I open the laptop in his room to take advantage of the stronger wifi. Bruce reported earlier that the headquarters in Europe and the Fridge were exclusively under SHIELD power and holding. Agent Hill apparently described the Fridge as ‘rock solid’, so I’m hoping she knows what she’s talking about. Agent Barton’s whereabouts, unfortunately, are still unknown.

            I’m trying to catch up with some of the headlines of the day when Kitty steps into the doorway with her laptop. “How did you know about this list?”

            “Show it to me.” I make space for her on the bed.

            “Ace, we’re all on it.”

            “Who’s we?”

            “Xavier’s.” She sits down. “Every student who’s ever enrolled since the school went digital.”

            “Just students, not staff?”

            “Some staff. I searched for myself first, and then I just kept finding people we know.”

            I skim through the list she’s created. “What about people we know who didn’t go here, like Kurt or Emma?”

            “Already did, they’re both there, but Logan and Xavier aren’t.”

            “Logan’s like me he’s not on anyone’s list,” I bring up the Index on my computer too, “and SHIELD doesn’t seem to hold much faith in telepaths.”

            “So why is Emma-”

            “She publicly admitted it,” I remind her, “and diamond armor is pretty hard to deny.”

            Kitty pushes her hair behind her ear. “Hey, Pete and I have plans in the morning, and you said you could cover this if-”

            “Sure, do you need your computer?”

            “No, just keep adding names as you find them.” She closes some excess tabs. “This is starting to freak me out.”

            There are barely two thousand names on the Index. Whoever uploaded it onto the site where Kitty found it did a terrible job as some files are corrupted and all are completely out of order. Aside from the list of people we know, I’ve created a list for people the Index defines as “incarcerated." Hopefully, if anything catastrophic does occur at the Fridge we’ll know who to expect.

            By 3am I’m down to adding names I only think I’ve heard before. No ‘Ace’ appears anywhere, not even as an alias. After a tedious struggle I manage to recover some of the damaged files, and there she is. Aracely Ortega, her date and place of birth, and her current location a boarding school in New York. It goes on to describe my appearance too as I run my fingers through brown hair, long when last seen, and gape with my Latino-Caucasian features. A list of some of my abilities follows, including invisibility and teleportation.

            For a moment I sit stunned. Coulson did not lie about redacting my Alkali files as they are nowhere to be found. Yet, Aracely Ortega- a dead child- is on the Index and resides in New York. Who else but Coulson?

            Instinctively, I grab the cell. Tony might still be up, might be in Washington with Natasha who will know where Clint is.

            A prick of anxiety sets the phone down and pushes the laptop away, taking one deep breath after the other. Clint knows everything Coulson knew, and arranged for me to meet my biological mother, supposedly concluding Coulson’s work with me. Coulson was simply trying to get information out of me about Alkali while assessing me for recruitment. Barton couldn’t recruit me, and neither could I relate any further intelligence to him that might benefit the agency. Introducing me to my mother was pointless.

            My body tightens, jaw clenched, fists ground into the bedcovers. I look up Julia Buell in connection with SHIELD. Searching her name takes me directly to a leaked file profiling the company she works for, and I recognize it as the owner of labs the mutant drug went to.

            Then, as if the world weren’t small enough, I find the accompanying headline ‘Top Researcher Arrested Amidst HYDRA Scandal’. The photo that goes with it, to my extreme dismay, is of a spectacled old man with burn scars marring his face.

            Slamming the laptop shut, I rise to pace the room. Not good enough. I run down the stairs, back up, back down again, and then outside. Taking the walk to the stables, I keep going, keep following the path until I reach the lake. Swimming lessons are taught here, and one summer I actually beat the swim instructor in a race. He can breathe underwater.

            Stripping down to nothing, I run off the dock as fast as I possibly can and dive. The shivering shockwave travels through my body, sharpening my senses as hard water rips furiously past my ears. The murky cosmos encapsulates me, roiling, thrashing, consuming as I force it out of my way. Sensing the bottom closing in, I mercifully let the cosmos relapse into tranquility. My feet search for grip in the soft mud, and I push myself onto the embankment, mud turning to leaves and young grass. Oxygen is swallowed in strong, even inhalations, and I stare back into the rippling darkness with a strange smile on my face and triumph in my veins. Everything is going to be fine.


	64. Chapter 64

           For nefarious and deeply irritating reasons, when HYDRA eventually overtook the Fridge they released every inmate. Two weeks are spent rounding them up, and different organizations who now know of our work contact us about housing our troublesome mutant cousins. Three such mutants actually move in with us burdened with tales of experimentation and abuse to worsen our already dubious perception of SHIELD, filling us with regret for entrusting them with fellow mutants.

           Tony started calling eight days ago. His calls often go to voicemail as I’m preoccupied with tamping down small villainous uprisings across the globe. Finally, I talk to the man.

           “Tony, I don’t want to hear you say it.”

           “Say what, thank you?”

           “Thank you?”

           “For rounding up all the crazies like you guys have been, lightening the load one lab accident at a time.” He sounds like he’s hopped up on caffeine pills. “Why, what’d you think I was going to say?”

           Impatient, I ask, “What’s the status of the team?”

           “Why would I ask you that?”

           “No, _I’m_ asking you that.”

           “Well, Cap’s back to brawny health,” Tony begins, “and is wondering where the heck everyone is. Natasha’s finished up her hearings, Bruce has made friends with our new medical staff. Thor we haven’t heard from yet, but Loki’s scepter is apparently on the list of powerful items unaccounted for, so we expect to hear from him soon.”

           And now for the part I don’t want to hear you say.

           “Our luckless archer got caught in a firefight somewhere in Southeast Asia, but he’s on his way home now.”

           “Have we confirmed that he’s not working for the other side?”

           “Were we…confirming that?”

           Rubbing my eyes, I listen with one ear to Scott and Emma talking in the study. “Tony, I can’t come to the tower, I’m sorry. I have a lot of things to say, and don’t want to create a problem in your building.”

           “Get over here anyway,” he predictably demands. “If you are going to start an argument, make it quick ‘cause we’ve got work to do.”

           In a conference room at the tower I lean against the back of an expensive leather office chair. Tony was here a minute ago, but left on an errand with Natasha. Bruce and Steve keep their own counsel while I watch the sky for signs of Thor’s arrival. When the elevator from the hangar bay opens a slender brunette struts in with an air of superiority. Upon seeing the three of us she bows her head in reluctant recognition and stands aside. Tony strolls in after her with Natasha and Barton in tow. Looking away, I tell myself I can leave whenever I want to.

            Steve takes a deep breath, and I instantly shut him out. Instead, I listen to Tony ticking with things to say, Natasha inhaling sharply as she adjusts her sling, Bruce clasping his hands to control his anger. Barton runs his fingers over the curve of a bow lying before him on the table, his quiver empty.

            “The weapons aboard were trained on civilians seen as threats to HYDRA,” Steve says, explaining the intent of the helicarriers. “There would’ve been casualties in the millions, country by country.”

            “Getting all three of them out of the sky at once was the quickest solution,” adds the brunette.

            I think about the reasoning here. “So shoot them down bombastically. Weren’t there hundreds of people aboard each as well as a civilian population below?”

            “The Triskelion and the mainland surrounding it were evacuated. While those aboard suffered heavy losses we had to assume they were all HYDRA affiliates.”

            “And it was necessary to dump every iota of information onto the internet because?”

            “HYDRA needed to be exposed and there wasn’t time to pick the good from the bad,” Natasha interjects.

            “Why didn’t I catch any of that when I ran my decryption program two years ago?” Tony asks.

            “Because you instantly got hung up on weapons manufacturing,” Bruce says helpfully, “and then the ship got attacked.”

            “Besides,” adds Clint, “not even members of HYDRA knew who was a member of HYDRA until the takeover. We still don’t know which secrets were HYDRA’s and which were our own.”

            I look sideways at him and ask an intentionally stupid question. “You fought them first hand, right?”

            Clint glances at the empty quiver in the chair beside him. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

            “Ace?” Steve is watching me carefully, Tony with a scrutinizing look. “I know this came at a personal-”

            “It’s not that.” I keep from looking at Natasha. “It’s that your name is ‘shield’, and you’ve just stepped back and exposed thousands. Me, I can fight, but there are a few hundred mutants and their families who don’t know what’s coming- let alone everyone else in SHIELD’s files.”

            “No one’s denying that,” Natasha pipes up. “We released anarchy into the world when I hit that button. I can’t undo that, I wouldn’t.”

            “The best we can do now is get to those people- those families,” Steve looks me in the eye, “before HYDRA does. Are you with us?”

            Pushing off the back of the chair, I look Clint over again. “Did you know my mother was on HYDRA’s payroll?”

            A pall descends on the room. Tony clears his throat, but I speak before he can.

            “A Dr. Arthur Kline was hired by SHIELD in 2000 to work at the Fridge- are you familiar with him?”

            “Of course not,” Clint looks at the others, “I don’t know every doctor SHIELD hires. Why, is he HYDRA too?”

            “He would’ve kept tabs on her in case I went looking. Seeing as you tried so hard to get us to meet-”

            “Clint wouldn’t have known, Ace.” Natasha steps forward, eyes locked on mine. “She works for a company that just had a quarter of its staff arrested for treason. No one knew.”

            “Who’s Dr. Kline?” Steve asks.

            I grit my teeth, resolving to ignore all other parties aside from Clint.

            “Look,” Clint leans across the table, pushing his bow out of the way, “I thought I was doing you and Coulson a favor, but I got caught in some bureaucratic bullshit and couldn’t get out of it. I told you that when it was happening.” A fraction of a humorless smile appears in his features. “The superior who forced that meeting got shot two days ago yelling the HYDRA standard.”

            “So you were completely oblivious?” I summarize.

            “So were you,” he parries. “And you supposedly read minds.”

            Did I tell him that? “There was no one in my presence who knew.”

            “Then you read my mind,” Clint’s jaw tightens, “and you saw nothing there, yet now you’re pointing fingers?”

            “I didn’t read your mind it wasn’t my right, but I now regret that.”

            “Ace, I didn’t know.” He puts his hands out, palms to the tabletop. “If I had none of this would be happening right now.”

            Feeling the unease surrounding me and the protectiveness of Natasha, I start angling myself toward the exit. “Well now they know that I know they were after me. They’re going to make their move before I can run.”

            “They had the resources to arrest you before,” Natasha contends. “They don’t now.”

            “Alkali?” Tony asks abruptly as he studies something on his phone. “What’s Alkali?”

            “They’ll still want me,” I tell Natasha. “They’ll come after me because they’ve got no one better. I’m their him,” I jerk my chin at Steve, “and they’ll use me like they used him.”

            “You think we’ll let them?” Steve asks, looking away from the phone. “These are exactly the kind of degenerates we’re going after. If they’re a threat to you-”

            “I’m a threat to them,” I announce.

            “Then we’re agreed,” he says finally.

            Bruce, who has been monitoring a tabletop display for the last few minutes, hums a note of interest. “Sudden weather warning in our area.”

            “Why, would you look at that?” Tony observes as a bolt lances the lightning rod of a nearby skyscraper. “The ol’ warhorse showed up.”

            “Steve’s been here,” Natasha quips, looking smug. Steve barely raises an eyebrow.

            The subject of Thor’s visit is essentially what Tony already related. The mysterious scepter once wielded by Loki has purportedly fallen into HYDRA’s dominion. Steve argues the necessity of uprooting HYDRA permanently in our search for this weapon, and I know I’m not alone in seeing his wartime prerogative finally thawed along with the rest of him.

            Natasha resists entreaties to rest as she nurses her bullet wound- aggravated by weeks of pretending not to have one while in public. Known bases and affiliates of HYDRA form a meager list promptly scoured by Steve, Tony, and Thor. Maria Hill, the name of the reedy brunette with an attitude, adds her two cents frequently, and is clearly a desirable asset to this new hierarchy.

            Tony abruptly informs me that my new suit is ready and waiting after a “few modifications” were made to the old design. The others gripe over or praise their equipment, and I feel that whatever I end up zipping myself into can’t be as bad as the patriotic getup Steve will be in.

            Clint approaches me in the empty locker room, but I continue strapping on my boots, hoping he’ll change his mind and walk away.

            “Why would you think I’d-”

            “I obviously didn’t know what to think,” I reply sharply. “You were the only person alive who knew-”

            “I didn’t tell anyone anything, and I made sure to tell you the room was bugged before you went in.”

            “It wasn’t. They led you to believe that too I suppose.”

            Watching me, his brows unconsciously arched in a worried way, he tugs on the fresh leather of his hand-guard. “You’re still holding it against me.”

            “It’s going to take a while to wear off, yeah. The whole of SHIELD is on my blacklist.” I stamp my feet in the boots before meeting his eyes. “When I expressed my distrust to Coulson, the last thing I expected was that the agency would fall apart.”

            “Right, it was just an average Wednesday for me too.”

            “You’re an ass.”

            “No, you’re the ass. You and I sweated it out on the same streets in Manhattan with laser cannons firing at us from all angles. After seeing you fight, you think I’d be stupid enough to sell you out?”

            “You would if you were HYDRA.”

            He looks at me with his mouth open. “If I was HYDRA I would’ve turned in my swastika the minute that giant lizard slug scraped the top off of Grand Central. SHIELD or no SHIELD, I’m here now and we’re on the same team. Don’t call me an ass.”

            We scowl at each other for a second before he turns on his heel and heads out to the hangar.

            “The HYDRA insignia is a skull with tentacles.”

            He steps backward into the locker room. “You’re kidding me right? I know what it looks like.”

            “Then why did you say swastika?”

            “Cuz’ I didn’t plan some factually accurate speech before I came in here, I just wanted to yell at you. Shut up.”

            The elevator doors open, and Steve and Natasha step out. Steve looks between the two of us. “Is there going to be a problem here?”

            “No problem,” I say, braiding my hair. “Clint’s just being an ass.”

            Clint glowers and turns to Natasha for support. Testing out the lock on her locker, she says something to him in Russian.

            “You’re a buttmunch,” Clint tells me.

            I snort with laughter, and see a mild gleam come to Natasha’s eyes. Steve raises an eyebrow, sharing her attitude, and walks past me. “Alright then.”

            The odd little number in the hangar bay is what Tony and the ex-SHIELD agents refer to as a quinjet. She’s tinier than the Blackbird, as sleek as a sparrow with her domed top and stout shape. Her wings are collapsible, folding onto themselves to fit in the hangar. Mechanical tracks pull her out onto the landing pad where she stretches her wings for takeoff.

            Clint and Tony have a flight-long discussion on how to operate everything, making it clear that Tony consulted him during the design process. I sit near them, asking questions and generally absorbing their knowledge of the craft. Bruce sits quietly in the back, trying to go unnoticed while wondering why he volunteered for this. Natasha keeps an eye on him as she familiarizes herself with her weaponry. If he flinches when she handles a certain weapon a certain way, she sets it aside and finds something else. Thor and Steve are deep in a conversation, that I try my best not to overhear. Tony taps me on the head to retrieve my attention, and points out some other crucial mechanical detail that I missed.

            Our mission is a storage facility that HYDRA claimed only three days ago. Our guess is that they will still be settling in, doing inventory of their loot, and be unprepared for an attack. If the scepter Thor seeks is not there, there will at least be someone who can tell us where to find it.

            “What do we do with all the HYDRA agents again?” I ask.

            “Hill arranged for a clean-up crew to come in after us. They’ll wait until the coast is clear to start making arrests.” Tony winks. “See? I really thought this one out, Hardware.”

            Clint laughs. “You actually call her that?”

            “Course I do, she’s Ace Hardware.”

            I pretend not to care what I’m called, smiling condescendingly. “Neither of you are as clever as you think.”

            “Shut up, Hardware.” Clint bats at me as he steps down from the cockpit, taking my responding kick with another rude laugh.

            Due to the time difference, we arrive at a quarter to four in the morning. The security lights marking the perimeter appear as pinpoints in the darkness. I hang out the back of the jet, braid tucked into my collar and eyes squinting against the freezing wind as I study the pale rooftop two miles below. Thor and Tony wait at my back for me to jump, and I fight a wave of nostalgia before stepping off the ramp. 

            The plan is this: I land first, jam all but two of the doors, and cut off the power. Tony and Clint further impede escape by destroying vehicles in the parking lot and picking off strays. Once Steve, Thor, Natasha, and myself have succeeded in disarming the agents within, Thor and I search the warehouses for the scepter and anyone trying to hide.           

            The plan works flawlessly. No scepter- much to Thor’s chagrin- but a multitude of other diabolical artifacts are retrieved. After taking advantage of the opportunity to punch HYDRA agents, Tony’s clean-up crew arrives with choppers, guns, and windowless vans. 

            Back in the quinjet, Bruce gives a relieved sigh, glad not to be needed. It would have saved Tony some trouble if Hulk was the one destroying vehicles, but I share Bruce’s relief nonetheless.

            “Two more stops tonight,” Steve announces as soon as we’re in the air. “Hope this was just a warm-up for everybody.”

            I steal one of Clint’s arrow shafts and poke him in the knee with it. “Don’t get tired, Housefly.”

            He pokes me back. “Watch yourself, buttmunch.”

            Collapsing into bed at the tower, I realize my plan to stay home between missions was naïve at best. Of course we didn’t find the scepter. Nor did our tightlipped captives share much in the way of leads. It will take time to get them to talk- Natasha predicts hours for some, years for others. Meanwhile, Tony and Maria are tracking down fresh targets for our next series of missions, while Thor broods by windows, more impatient by the minute.

            A few texts between me and Vince were the only contact I’ve had with him in 36 hours. When I told Scott why to expect my absence, he merely replied with a curt blessing and a request that I hit some HYDRA agents for him. Factoring in the varied punishments other members of the X-Men wish to dole out, my schedule of violence should be full.

            After forcing myself to shower, I head down to the kitchen and see it already ravaged. Boxes, wrappers, and cutting boards are scattered over the countertops. Steve sits at the bar alone, finishing the remainder of his meal. Dishes in the sink tell me others were responsible for this chaos, and that I may have missed my chance at a full meal.

            “There’s a whole lasagna still in there,” Steve helpfully informs.

            I glance over the mess again, and raise a brow. Steve chuckles. “It was mostly Tony if you can believe it.”

            “That would explain the blender,” I say, opening the fridge. Steve goes back to his meal, but it becomes clear that he’s only stalling. A whole night and day of fighting hasn’t distracted him from the events of yesterday afternoon.

            “Natasha recommended you for that jump,” he says, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Said you’d infiltrate the establishment faster than she could.”

            “Did I?” I ask, checking to see if he’s the kind of leader who enjoys being asked his opinion.

            Steve smiles thinly and dismisses the question. “I need to know who’s on my team so I can balance our strengths and our weaknesses.”

            “So this is an interview.”

            “I’m talking to everyone, Ace, and I’m asking you all the same question. Why are you on this team?”

            “Because I want to protect people and kick HYDRA in the groin. Repeatedly.”

            He masks a smile by taking a drink from his glass, and I take a big bite of lasagna.

            “I prefer information straight from the source,” he says next, gathering his dishes, “so in light of SHIELD’s exposure, what is there you need to tell me before I hear of it somewhere else?”

            “Strictly as it affects the team?” I clarify.

            “Doesn’t have to be.”

            Everyone is interested in a different aspect of me, so I tell them what they want to hear. What would Steve be interested in knowing about me? “I led a company into battle when I was eleven. There was no one left of higher rank.” Briefly, I address my life beyond this universe. Each time I tell it feels more distant and emotionless than the last, like it all happened to someone else. “After being found by the X-Men, I’m ready to work hard to protect this planet. I took the Battle of Manhattan very personally.”

            With a syrupy smile, I slide my fork into the tray of lasagna leaving four-pronged holes in it again and again. I want to drop off this stool and curl up on the floor.

            “Thank you. For telling me that.” Steve watches attentively, perhaps noticing my rapid decline. “Have you talked about any of this with Thor?”

            I look up at him. “Thor? No, we don’t talk.” I yawn. “Why?”

            “Because he wasn’t raised here either and might be interested in your viewpoint. You could help him adjust.”

            Smirking, I push the tray away and yawn again. “I’m the last person Thor needs to bond with.”

            “Well,” Steve rises with his dishes, “you never know.”

            Sectioning off a corner of lasagna I think I can handle before falling asleep, I look over my shoulder at the young, healthy man behind me. “How old are you Steve?”

            “Ninety-five. You?” He arches a curious brow as he rinses off his plate.

            I go back to my lasagna. “A little under eighty I think.”

            “Ah,” he pops open the dishwasher, “so you’ve been catching up too. I wondered why you wanted to talk history with an old man.”

            Gulping down a mouthful of pasta, I reach across the counter to steal his napkin. “We’re both a little out of the loop.”

            Steve puts his hands on his hips and stares down at the settings on the machine. I turn around on my stool. “Is this another one of Tony’s uber-complicated appliances?”

            “I’ll figure it out.” Steve starts loading dishes. “May I ask what yesterday’s dilemma was about?”

            “The program that made you tried to make more of you. After a few decades with no success, they started inducting mutants into the experiments. Dr. Kline was the scientist in charge of me.”

            Steve lets out an angry sigh, and closes the machine. “You know, I really don’t blame you and Thor for staying away from Earth all this time.”

            I slide off the stool and cover the lasagna again. “I’m sorry for bringing you into it though.”

            “No, it’s fine. I’m glad you said it.” He crosses his arms and leans back against the dishwasher. “It helps me understand where you’re coming from.”

            Putting the tray back in the fridge. “It’s not where I come from that matters. It’s what I learned along the way.”

            Steve huffs agreeably, a pleasing smile on his face. “Tony says you learn fast, and Bruce says you learn abilities.”

            “That I do,” I smile pleasantly in return, capable only of mimicking his mildness.

            With a sigh he stands up and sweeps the last of the mess off the counter. “Tell me about some of them.”

            Brushing my fingers through Vince’s hair, I climb into bed beside him. The unique silence of life out here cannot be expounded upon enough as I let my body sink into the mattress, hearing only the subtle creak of the springs and sinking of the linen sheets with me. The Avengers have access to me in case I’m needed again before morning, but until then I’m enjoying rest only the country can provide.

            Footsteps coming up the path wake me. My hairs rise, but I know the threat is minimal and wait for the knock at the door.

            “Ace?”

            I lift my head slightly, trying to determine if I’m wearing enough clothes under the blankets. “Scott?”

            “Ace, get up,” he opens the door and peeks in, “Matt called, he’s at the hospital.”

            I sit up straight. “Where? Who called you?”

            “Get dressed, his parents are in the ER. Hurry.”

            Vince turns over just as the door closes and I start changing. “Wus hap’nin?”

            “Matt’s parents are in the hospital. Here,” I toss his shoes against the bed, “get dressed.”

            At the desk I inform the skeptical nurse that I’m Matt Larson’s cousin here with my fiancé, and that gets us through. Matt sits alone in a family waiting room, head in his hands, collar crooked. Looking up he takes a deep breath, and tries to wipe away snot and tears.

            “Dad’s dead.”

            I take the only seat beside him, and Vince stands in front of him knotting up the cuffs of his sweater. “Mattie, what happened?”

            “Car ac-accident,” Matt looks up at Vince. “They were driving b-back from dinner.”

             “How’s your mom?” Vince asks, voice cracking.

            “B-bad. She l-lost a lot of blood.” His face wrinkles up and he sobs into both hands again.

            I hold him and press my face into his shoulder, feebly holding back tears of my own. “We’re so sorry, sweetie. We’re so sorry.”

            Vince leans down to hold him too, and together we try not to overshadow his grief with our own. Within fifteen minutes of our arriving, a young black nurse asks Matthew into the hallway, her expression sympathetic yet dispirited. I squeeze Matt’s hand as he gets up then squeeze Vince’s when he leaves.

            “Is she-” Vince asks.

            “Yeah,” I answer, wiping my eyes, “mom’s gone too.”

 

            We stay with Matt until his yawning lawyer and a pair of hopeful relatives arrive. Then come two more lawyers; one the partner to the first, and the other a pitying, well-groomed sort of man. Vince and I look at each other, realizing the enormity of two deaths in a wealthy family. More relatives arrive, and the family room gets warm with so many gold diggers mouth-breathing at once. Vince and I stick to our post near Matt, noting how he receives each newcomer, watching their eyes and absorbing their thoughts.

            I jump when my phone vibrates, and Vince shakes his head at me for once, knowing without looking that it’s the Avengers. Silencing it, I try to put the call to the back of my mind. Hearing the change in the phone when another call is made, I excuse myself from the room.

            “What’s the mission?”

            “Hell in a hand basket,” says Steve. “The base is heavily armed and we can confirm at least one gifted individual is playing for the other team. Report to the tower-”

            I lower the phone as Vince finds me in a nurse-free vestibule. “What are you doing?”

            “They need me, Vin. We can’t let these assholes rest.”

            “ _Matt_ needs you. You saw how many people are in there, he’s got too much to deal with-”

            I raise the phone to my ear, but Steve’s already hung up assuming me to be on my way. “Vin, I _have_ to go. Stay with him, keep him sane, and drive him home when it’s all over or call Scott for-”

            “Scott just texted, he’s waiting in the lobby because the nurses won’t let him up.”

            I’m losing precious seconds to get in gear and onto the quinjet. “Go down there and get him then. Matt needs him most right now. I love you both.”

            With a gasp I land in the locker room at the tower. Natasha swears flatly then throws my suit at me. “Hurry up.”

            Strapping in, I rub my gloved fingers over the metal clasp of the restraints as the high-pitched whine of the engines blots out all sound for me. Steve fills us in on the details of the mission, lays out our strategy, and gives us our individual assignments. I grasp none of it as I clench and unclench my toes inside my boots, thinking only that when we reach our destination I’m going to hit someone and hit them hard.


	65. Chapter 65

            The space is cramped and airless. Taking shallow breaths, I listen to my own heart throbbing in my ears as I test my joints and muscles to make sure they all still work.

            My earpiece buzzes. “Have you reached it yet?”

            “No, not yet,” I reply with constrained cheeriness. “Have you come up with a signal?”

            There’s a heavy pause. “We’re still working on it, Ace. Contact us as soon as you’re capable.”

            With a quick breath I drop through the concrete, trying again to reach the purported underground facility beneath.

            It’s been two months since SHIELD’s collapse and in that time we’ve recovered much ground. HYDRA remains at large as does the elusive scepter, but the Avengers have gone from undoing HYDRA’s damage to preventing it, putting the once cocky offense in a perpetual state of unease.

            My heart leaps into my throat as unexpectedly I drop into empty space. Pulling myself together before my feet hit the floor, I land gracefully. “I’m in.”

            No response. Having predicted this would happen after eight minutes of phasing through concrete and rock, I get up and keep moving.  

            Somewhere in this underground bunker is a room containing hostage ‘SHIELD agents’. Their nervous captors only entered the bunker an hour ago and, knowing we were hot on their tails, decided human lives would make easy leverage. Tony’s been stalling them the whole time I’ve been phasing through.          

            “Have…way…Ace?” my earpiece crackles unhappily.

            With a growl of irritation, I knock down the HYDRA guard who just turned at the sound. Muffling his shout and killing his comm., I reply tersely. “Yes, I’ve been in. Signal?”

            Again, no response.

            Turning the agent’s head, I venture as far into his mind as I can stand. “Disarm and go up to the surface. Show them the way in.”

            Expressionless, the agent obeys, stripping himself of his weapons and armor before departing up the hall. Hopefully he gets there before my order wears off.

            In the hostage room, each HYDRA guard considerately leaves his weapon on the table, and kneels along the back wall. When I reappear, the SHIELD agents breathe a collective sigh of relief at the “A” insignia on my suit, and file out of the room.

            Natasha and Clint herd the hostages; Thor, Tony, and Steve tamp down the disarmed HYDRA once my instructions wear off; and I lie on the floor of the quinjet complaining to Bruce about my massive headache.

            On the four hour flight home my symptoms worsen. Bruce murmurs something about his transformation, and Thor props me up as Tony puts a sick bag in my lap. Kitty would be shaking her head right now, wondering how I managed to make myself so violently ill by doing what comes to her naturally. A cold sweat creeps down my neck, so I unzip my suit to dry off. Clutching the paper bag, I close my eyes to dull the baby migraine and give my stomach a chance to settle.

            Steve sends me to sickbay as soon as we land, but I take a bottle of Dramamine and go to my own bathroom instead. I’m too drained to close the door, so Clint finds me sitting next to the toilet with a towel over my eyes.

            “Clint, I’m a fraud. None of these abilities are mine.”

He stands there, still in full gear it sounds like. Holding onto the counter with one hand, he unclasps his boot. “At least you have abilities.”

            “I don’t deserve them. They make me miserable.” Speaking softly actually calms my headache somewhat. “How could I be so stupid?”

            Clint sits down on the edge of the tub to pull off his boots. “Have you thrown up yet?”

            “No. Heartless.”

            He tosses them by the door. “Just wondering if you’re going to keep whining.” Getting down on his knees, he starts unclasping my boots next. “Does Tony know about that?”

            “That I’m a fraud?”

            “No, that.”

            I lift the towel off my eyes. “I did that in Malaysia. Keep forgetting to tell him.”

            “Does this happen with the X-Men too?” He slides off one boot, then tugs on the second. “You overwork something and get sick?”

            “No. They usually stop me before I do, or get a natural to do it.” I pull my foot out of the second boot. “With you guys I’m just filling in skill gaps.”

            Natasha shows up to lean on the doorframe. “How’s the invalid?”

            “Dying,” I say. 

            “Still in one piece,” Clint replies. “Stark need me?”

            Natasha nods, and steps out of the way. They knock elbows confidentially, saying nothing with looks or speech, but communicating nonetheless. When he’s gone, Natasha crosses her arms. I pull the towel off my face and get up. “You’re dressed down. No new mission?”

            She shakes her head, crooking a brow. “All clear for a day or two. We’re having a late, surprise birthday celebration for Steve during the lull.”

            I smirk weakly. “And America.”

            She smiles carefully. “And America.”

            This is the second time she’s elicited something close to a smile from me and I know she’s tallying it. I see nothing wrong with her attempts to draw me out, but Natasha nurtures resources not friendships.

            When the fatigue clears I make an appearance upstairs to see if there are any duties left for me to fulfill. Steve and Tony are having a brief argument over strategy, so I excuse myself and jump to the mansion.

            Back home things aren’t much different. Logan argues with Hank, Jean argues with Scott, Storm and Emma disagree over something, and the overall atmosphere is familiarly tense. Vince is cloistered off in my room which looks like he released the contents of his school satchel in a moment of academic fury.

            “I might as well come live with you in Manhattan,” he says the moment I step in, “based on how rarely I see you.”

            “Oh, don’t start,” I drop my coat on the dresser, and decide against joining him on the bed.

            He puts his pen down. “Angle started an argument with Magneto today.”

            I pause in the bathroom doorway. “He found him?”

            “Jean and Logan had to get him back downstairs,” he continues. “They thought he was going to kill him.”

            He wouldn’t be the first ex-brethren to attempt it. “Xavier can’t keep them all. We’re gone too often, and Erik’s been here long enough to establish an influence.”

            “He hasn’t talked to any of the kids,” Vince is quick to say, “though I wouldn’t put it past him to use one of the others.”

            We’re both thinking of the tactics he used before. I take my toothbrush out of the medicine cabinet. “Anything else happen today?”

            Vince closes a gutted binder and drops it on the desk. “There was a shootout three blocks from where Mike and I were getting lunch.”

            “What?” I finish brushing quickly. “How, who was involved?”

            “Online it says gang violence, which I already figured,” he adds in aggravating monotone. “We hit the deck when the gunfire got closer.”

            I run the tap to rinse out the sink. “God, I’m sorry, Vin.”

            “I love the city, but ever since the incident it’s been going to the dogs.” He drops his hands in his lap and presses his lips together. “And your day?”

            I sigh through my nose. “Uprooted some arms dealers this morning.”

            He puts the rest of his school supplies on the desk and lies back in bed. “Sounds fun?”

            “Paltry,” I close the curtain with telekinesis.

            “Well,” he closes his eyes as I switch on the fan, blowing cool air over his face, “at least you accomplished something.”

            I sit down on the edge of the bed to watch him. “Where did you and Mike go for lunch?”

            “West side,” he sighs, “same place you and I went on 46th.”

            “The Kitchen,” I say, and he hums in agreement. “Did you talk to Matt today?”

            “Yes, I did,” he replies congenially. “Says his relatives might poison him, but he doesn’t want to come out here until he’s sold the last of his mom’s taxidermied Pomeranians in case they come back to life and eat him in his sleep.”

            “How does that stop him from coming out here?”

            Vince shrugs. “Matt logic.”

            There’s a glimpse of skin between the waist of his pants and his shirt. I ghost my finger over it, feeling him tremble faintly. “He’s handling this all better than I thought he would.”

            “He’s business sense and he’s taken care of himself for years now.” Vince lies still and keeps his eyes closed, “He won’t talk about his mom though. That hurts him I think.”

            “Probably because she dumped this mess on him.” I rub my fingers over his abdomen.  “Robert tried to deprive his son of the inheritance, Jackie accidentally put a price on his head, and thus their exceptional parenting skills continue from beyond the grave.”

            “That does sound like them,” Vince admits, sitting up and pulling off his shirt. “But I don’t think Robert Larson would intentionally leave the majority of his estate to a ditz you said he had no respect for.”

            “Honestly, all we know is Matt’s side of things and one stressful holiday when I saw them arguing.” I kick off my shoes and let my hair down. “Maybe Robert loved his wife, or maybe he just wanted her to spend all the money before Matt got it.”

            “Without considering that she might spend it _on_ Matt?” Vince asks, lifting my shirt over my head. “A man that controlling would have had some say in how her will was written.”

            “Unless she changed it behind his back out of spite,” I conjecture. Vince stops listening for a second to watch me take my bra off. Lying back again, he pushes the covers down and lets me climb on top.

            “In the end,” I stretch my arms over his shoulders, “I think Matt’s mom loved him.”

            His brows pop up. “Maybe that’s why Matt won’t talk about her. He actually misses her.”

            I look into these soft, hazel eyes, and puzzle again over the conundrum of motherhood. “I think Matt feels a lot of things that he keeps quiet. I’m not used to him closing up like this.”

            “Don’t worry about him.” Vince kisses me gently. “He has us.”

            I try to let this melancholy settle, stumbling onto the strange fact that Matt and I have been friends longer than we’ve known Vince. Light fingers brush up and down my sides slowly. “We’ll be okay. Matt will be okay, the school will be okay, New York will be okay. It’s all going to work out.”

            Lifting his head, he kisses me on the lips, and I return the sentiment wholeheartedly.

 

            Clint smears patriotic frosting across his forehead like war paint, eliciting quiet snickers from the group. Holding his beer in the air, he lifts his chin nobly. “On this, the day we achieved independence-”

            “Two weeks ago, Barton,” Tony comments, watching to see if he is capable of being upstaged.

            “Two weeks and four hundred score ago,” Clint continues. Bruce covers his face with his hand to hide his laughter. Vince is having a fit of giggles beside me on the couch, his nerves mixing with the drinks Tony slips him when I’m not looking.

            “We the people- and Thor- founded this,” Clint shrugs, “fair enough country.”

            Pepper taps Natasha on the shoulder, hands her something, and Natasha obligingly reaches across the settee to nestle a fragment of dyed blue feather in Clint’s hair.

            “Did someone suggest dumping tea into the harbor?” Tony asks.

            “I heard it,” I second.

            Clint leans his head back to look at Natasha. “I wasn’t finished with my speech.”

            “No, I think you were,” she says surely.

            “How much tea have we?” Thor asks, feigning innocent curiosity.

            “Not enough,” Steve replies with gusto, himself too sober to take any of this seriously.

            We all stiffen up when an alarm trills. Tiredly, Steve sets his drink down and stands up.

            “No, no,” Tony jumps up from the couch, “I’ll check, birthday boy. You hang tight.”

            “I’ll need to see it anyway,” Steve reasons. Raising an eyebrow at the rest of us, he uses his captain voice. “There better be tomahawks and crates of tea when I get back.”

            We offer a relaxed chuckle despite seeing through his attempt to keep morale up. When the two of them depart, the room grows unhappily quiet again.

            “Tomahawk?” Thor asks.

            “It’s a type of battle ax,” Clint answers, “but they haven’t been used for centuries.”

            “Like archery,” I add.

            A chorus of _ohh_ greets that statement, and Clint finishes his beer while flipping me off. I in turn wipe my finger through the frosting on his forehead down to the bridge of his nose.

            _“Avengers,”_ calls Steve over the intercom, and we’re on our feet before he can utter the second half of his rally. Vince gives me a lighthearted kiss, and Pepper reminds us to come back safely. I look over my shoulder when I hear someone approach Vince, and see Clint clapping him on the back like they’re old friends.

            It’s nearly dawn when we return. I shower, dress, and climb into bed thinking I might get some sleep before daybreak.

            “Scott called.”

            The sheets are blissfully cool on this side of the bed, “I know. He called me before we left.”

            There’s silence, then, “Sounded upset.”

            My body might fall through the mattress it’s so heavy with exhaustion. “He had a right.”

            Another pause. _They found more mutants didn’t they?_

            I sigh heavily. _No. Go back to sleep._

            The angry sigh tells me he’s too awake to forget this conversation, so I roll onto my back. “We’ll go back today, and I’ll-”

            “Do you still want to live there?” he cuts in. “At the mansion, are you still an X-Man?”

            “Of course,” I cover my eyes with my arm, “that hasn’t changed.”

            Vince sighs again and sits up. Getting his phone from its charger, he hands it back to me. “Logan wanted you to call him as soon as you got back.”

            I squeeze my eyes shut before throwing the covers off. “I’ll just go talk to him.”

            Vince swivels his head around. “Ace, he’s not-”

            “Reasonable? No, I’m sure he had a lovely mission and a long drink afterward.” I jerk on my jeans. “That’s okay I can be plenty reasonable for the both of us.”

            With a frustrated growl, Vince drops the phone on the bed. “Fine, go start a fight with Wolverine, have fun.”

            “What?” I throw my hands out in meaningless placation. “You’re the one who brought this up the second my head hit the pillow-”

            “I have been lying awake all night waiting for the next call to-”

            “He called _all night?”_

            “No,” Vince gets up with a scowl, “I said I’ve been awake all night because you can’t pick up your own goddamn phone, and they’ve got some crisis on their hands that they can’t solve without you-”

            “So tell me that first instead of ‘They find more mutants?’ like that isn’t your only concern.”

            “Like- what?”

            “Ever since Erik got here you’ve been fussing about all the mutants you know that keep showing up. You won’t even step foot in the building unless I come with you.” I tug on my jacket and flip through possible landing sites at the school. “So I’ll go back just so you feel safe in your own house-”

            “No, cut it out, that’s not what this is about.” Vince isn’t changing into his clothes so I guess he’s staying. “This is about what you said in, when was it, March? That we forget the tower and that you’d focus on the school.”

            “Well, that was before a megalomaniacal agency tried to kill my friends, wasn’t it?”

            “Right,” he sarcastically agrees, “and I guess there isn’t a megalomaniacal cult leader living in our house. _He’s_ never hurt our friends before.”

            “Shut up,” I snap. “Be ready to go home when I get back.”

 

            Twenty seconds is all it takes for Logan to raise his voice in the early morning hours. “We needed you last night, but you were too busy partying at Stark’s to pick up the damn phone.”

            “My team was already on a mission when you called.”

            Logan yanks a shirt from his closet. “ _We’re_ your team, and when we need you, you come.”

            “Oh please, there are nine- _ten_ able-bodied X-Men,” I point out. “Without me, the Avengers only number six, so unless you managed to lose four team members last night-”

            “We found Magneto’s telepaths. Five of ‘em against Jean and Emma.”

            “Well, I pity them.”

            “You wouldn’t happen to remember the mission where Emma joined us, do you?” Logan asks. "No, cuz you were screwin’ around then too.”

            “Knock it off,” I growl.

            “Jean and Emma linked minds or some shit to protect us.” He presses his lips together in a firm line and rolls up his sleeves. “Except you’re the only one who could’ve gotten past them, telepaths can’t hear you coming.”

            I rub my toe in a groove between floorboards. “Scott didn’t relapse did he?”

            “Don’t know,” Logan aims an eyebrow in the direction of their bedroom. “It’s quiet in there.”

            “Okay, so,” I rub my forehead, “so next mission Scott and Jean stay here so he can rest up. I’ll come, but I still think Emma can handle- Do all of you go out at once these days? It seems like someone should stick behind with the kids and non-combatants.”

            “You worried about Magneto?” 

I nod, and so does he. Cooling down, we pretend our anger was validated by dismissing it entirely.

            “Look, we’re breathing down HYDRA’s neck right now.” I brush my hair out of my face. “As soon as we’re done with them things will go back to normal.”

            Running his tongue over his teeth, Logan crosses his arms and leans back on his dresser. “Ace, you can’t juggle everything you want at once. Trying to keep us and the Avengers afloat will wear you out. It’s already wearin’ Vinny out.”

            The embarrassment from that argument creeps in too. “I’ll try and be here for the next mission.”

            “Only if Slim’s really damaged. Otherwise,” he uncrosses his arms and rubs his palms together, “keep doing what we taught you. Take care of your team.”

            A more complex task now than it once was.

 

            Under Scott’s undeterred leadership, the most wanted escapees of the Fridge are successfully recaptured. With that tumult over, Matt moves has moved into the mansion to avoid the hounding of his relations and their lawyers. Each time his windfall is mentioned it seems to double in size as more assets, the life insurance policies of his parents, and his newly accessible trust fund keep hiking the number. Matt maintains a level head, but for how long is anyone’s guess.

            At the tower, however, the news is somewhat less agreeable. Our leads have gone dry. HYDRA keeps a low-profile, popping up only now and then in miniscule numbers. As for the scepter, nothing but red herrings and goose chases have been drawn from interrogations of captive HYDRA officials. Naturally this all renders us uneasy as we await impending disaster.

            “Guys, you’ll want to get down here.”

            I scramble down a story in response to Maria’s call. Tony is already seated beside her, and the rest of the team joins us shortly.

            “Thanks to Hill and Romanoff,” Tony’s eyes reflect the blue-green readouts on the screen, “we have on our hands a full confessed list of HYDRA’s remaining bases and upcoming hits.”

            “How many are confirmed?” Steve asks.

            “Three,” Maria replies moodily. “Natasha got dates out of her imbecile, but only for low-priority strikes.”

            “Here is the map so far.” Tony plays with the commands, alternating between textual and visual information. “Mostly sites in Eurasia, one or two in the southern hemisphere. Aside from the confirmed strikes here, here, and here, we have eight sitting ducks.”

            “And no idea when they’re scheduled to become dinner,” Clint states grimly.

            I commit the screen to memory, knowing the information will most likely change.

            “We can’t be sure they don’t know we’re onto them now,” Steve says. “We’ll have to prioritize.”

            “I’ve got two other fish on the line,” Natasha informs us. “Might find out which locations to start with.”

            “How can we narrow it down to locations that may contain the scepter?” Thor asks, regarding the screen balefully. “We’ve given them enough time to raise an army using its power.”

            “Hold on,” I point to a mark on the screen, “what are they attacking there?”

            Tony squints at the text. “Some facility in upstate New York looks like. Our scans already cleared the area, so it may have to wait-”

            “Tony, that’s the school.”

            He pauses, scrutinizing the mark. “I…doubt it.”

            “Yes, look, I know where the school is on the map.”

            Steve hovers over my shoulder. “What does it have that HYDRA would want?”

            “Among other things?” I turn my head. “A device that was already used to try and wipe out mankind.”

            “Number of faculty and students?”

            “Non-combatant faculty makes twenty-three, student body over two hundred during fall semester which starts in a week.” Seeing his jaw clench I know what I have to do. “Cap, leave the school to us. The scepter should be main priority.”

            “Us?” asks Maria. Tony turns in his seat, ready to speak if Steve doesn’t.

            Steve looks level with me, then over his shoulder at Natasha. “Get started on those fish.”

            Landing in the mansion’s foyer, I hurry down the hall to the teachers’ offices. The X-Men will be preparing their curriculum and setting their affairs in order before school starts. Hearing two people in the first office I come to, Scott’s, I throw the door open.

            “Sco-”

            Madge and Matt pull away from each other, abruptly ending their kiss. Matt, however, catches her hand and keeps it.

            “Sorry,” Madge apologizes with a broad smile, “I should’ve called ahead.”

 


	66. Chapter 66

            She looks at me with concern. “Is everything okay?”

            I recall the urgency of my visit. “Where’s Scott?”

            Matt sighs through his nose, looking miffed, but Madge makes a small satisfied sound. “He just stepped out, but he’s coming back.”

            Bothered by Matt’s mood and propelled by my news, I leave the room to find Scott myself.

            Gathering up he, Charles, and Jean in the study, I relate my intelligence.

            “Is there any kind of timeframe?” Scott asks.

            “We don’t know. It could be next month, could be next year.” I wipe dust from the chess board with my bare fingers. “Rogers is expediting our process, so we’ll know when they do.”

 “Could it be a bluff?”

            “Could be,” I cross my arms, “or they could put it off once they realize we’re onto them. Surely there are more important targets.”

            “If they are aware of our involvement in the Alkali phenomenon,” Jean rubs her thumb over one painted nail, “then they won’t risk leaving us open as a threat.”

            “We’ve already gotten on HYDRA’s bad side,” Scott points out. “They were after- or controlling- some of the mutants and other gifted we’ve been tracking down.”

            “I didn’t know that,” I say with some shame. “They’ve used gifted individuals to attack us before, but the results were tragic.”

            “They commit suicide too?” Scott asks. Jean closes her eyes and turns away.

            “Professor,” she says, “you haven’t said anything yet.”

            Xavier looks between the three of us. “Have you considered, Ace, that this supposed attack is meant to draw you away from Rogers’ team?”

            I hadn’t. “It would be something they’d try. They’ve already attempted to distract others in the group.” Flaunting the whereabouts of an old friend of Steve’s, exposing dire grievances of the Stark family to the media.

            The grandfather clock out in the hall strikes six and Jean takes a breath. “We should call in the others before dinner.”

            “Yes,” Xavier sets down his glasses on the desk behind him, “it seems we have new preparations to make for the coming year.”

            As Xavier calls the other X-Men, Jean steps out to answer a phone call I hear ringing in her office. I leave for a glass of water, my throat feeling as dry as the tundra.

            Not far from Xavier’s office, I run into Matt just coming up the stairs. He jerks his chin in the direction I came from. “Where’s Scott, he’s supposed to assign Maggie a room.”

            “He’s got other problems right now, she’ll have to wait.” I square my shoulders, prepared to prevent an act of obstinacy. “How long have you been seeing each other?”

            “Christmas,” he answers frankly.

            I spread my fingers out at my sides. Eight months. “All phone conversations and online, or did you meet up in person?”

            Though his brows lower, he looks amused. “How is that any of your business?”

            I meet his eye, debating whether or not to waste time dealing with this right now. “Do you still consider us friends, Matthew?”

            The amusement vanishes, and he straightens his stance. “That depends. Do you still have time for friends?”

            Listening to the foremost of his thoughts, I harden my tone. “If you’re referencing my chosen line of work, you’re mistaken if you think I’d abandon it just to please you. Is that why you’re meddling with Madge? Because you can’t get attention from me anymore?”

            “I’m not meddling with anyone,” he scorns. “I’ve lost three very important people this year, watched my university become an invasion site, and my two ‘best friends’ have ignored me during all of it.”

            _“Ignored?_ I fought in that invasion, and I held your hand while we tried to track down your roommate.”

            “Yes, you abandoned me, and you only realized he was dead when you finally came back.”

            “Back from protecting your other hundred classmates and their city. And why drag Vince into this, he hasn’t been ignoring you.”

            “No, him I don’t blame, he has school and you to put up with. You realize you not only ditched us both at the hospital, missed the funeral and my birthday, but I graduated-”

            I put up my hand to stop him. “Are you seriously equating your parents’ funeral to your birthday? Have you actually become _more_ self-absorbed since I met you?”

            “Have _I?_ Look at yourself, your own boyfriend lives in the stables for you, and when you commute to New York he lives there.”

            “You made Madge fly all the way here to deal with your problems, while Vince and I are engaged.”

            He raises an eyebrow. “I hate to rain on your parade there, Ace, but guess what?”

            My throat tightens and I have to swallow twice.

            “Since April,” he drops a touch condescendingly. “And before you try to tackle that moral high ground- I do love her. She’s loyal, attentive, caring-”

            Naïve, trusting, gullible. “Matt, don’t do this to her. Please, don’t treat her like every other girl you’ve-”

            He steps forward briskly. “What do you know about how I treated other girls? I’ve been in love before.”

            “Yeah? And how did you feel after you had sex with them, were you still in love?”

            “I haven’t touched her,” he states defensively.

            “No, I’m pretty sure she’s intent on that only happening after she’s married.” I look for the tell-tale flicker of his eyelid. The man knows nothing about commitment. “Do you really trust yourself with the happiness and well-being of another person? Can you really support her when you’re as damaged as you say you are? Or are you just reluctant to give up the love she shows you?”

            “Ace,” Scott calls from behind me.

            I turn, and Matt reminds him, “Hey, Maggie’s still wait-”

            “Not now, Sonus.” Scott nods at me. “We’re ready.”

            “One sec.” I watch him disappear around the corner again. “Don’t hurt my girl, Matt.”

            “She doesn’t need you, Ace.”

            This makes me glance back at him before returning to the study.

 

            Storm sighs with frustration and fans herself with her hand. “Yes, but should we advise incoming students to stay home? Home studies is a suggestion we’ve discussed in past.”

            “We’re not prepared for that, not a week from the beginning of the semester.” Hank fills an armchair by an open window. “At best we can post lectures online, but given the vulnerability of our network lately-”

            “There’re a dozen ‘n one of our kids that I don’t like leaving at home even for the summer,” Logan bites. “We do that we risk their parents not sending them back again in the spring.”

            “We don’t know that the attack won’t be _in_ the spring,” Emma retorts. “Sending everyone away could easily be a trap in itself as HYDRA knows the home addresses of all our students.”

            “Oh, brother,” Kitty mumbles, “I doubt they’d have time to attack every kid at every house.”

            “How do we know they’re even after the kids?” Bobby asks, and Piotr seconds that query.

            “The Professor already hypothesized that they’re trying to draw Ace away from the Avengers,” Jean replies. “Or they could be after us for what happened at Alkali.”

            “Or they could be coming back for Cerebro,” Storm mentions. “Their Project Insight was meant to target specific individuals, why not try again with pre-existing technology?”

            “So,” Scott unbuttons another button on his overshirt, “essentially we’re running around with our heads cut off. Students start arriving in three days, and the odds of contacting all of them in time are ridiculous. We don’t know when this attack might take place, how they intend to attack us, or for what purpose. It’s even likely that Rogers’ team will take them by storm, damage their offense, and they have to call off any attack on the mansion for lack of manpower.”

            “Or they’ll speed up too and attack us first,” I say.

            Leaning back in his seat and pressing his fist to his lips, Scott looks at me. “You’re going to have to stay at the Tower and keep a close eye on this map of theirs. You guys have an ear to the ground?”

            “We do.” I bob my head, inexplicably relieved by this suggestion. “Ex-SHIELD agents and other reliable sources are working under Stark to find leads.”

            “Reliable,” Hank repeats, and I see Emma sneer. “Let’s hope so.”

 

            I return to Scott’s office for him, but Madge and Matt are not there. I find them outside by the fountain enjoying the descending warmth of the evening sun. They’re talking in-depth over their dinner plates about some subject pertaining to Matt- music is a good guess. I watch from the window to see if he’s going to show her how he can make a drop of water in the fountain sound like a marble hitting glass.

            When they see me approaching they go quiet like birds in the brush. Hiding my offense, I pull up a seat. “Scott said room eight on the third floor is open.”

            “Oh,” Madge takes a drink of iced tea, “thank you.”

            “Where’s Vin?” Matt asks as though our last encounter didn’t happen and I’ve been here since they began eating.

            “His internship tends to run long hours,” I reply, setting my cheek against my knuckles and crossing my legs. “He’ll be home soon though. Madge, how long do you think you’ll stay? Don’t you have school?”

            Madge shakes her head. “Not for a week at least.” The inference that she intends to stay past that hangs in the air.

            I watch her eat with her hair carefully clipped back away from her face, and her fork and knife used with all the faux gentility derived from years of reading classic dramas. “Well, don’t stay long. With school starting and all the trouble in the world it might get stressful.”

            “Oh, don’t worry about me,” Madge says appreciatively, separating a softened head of broccoli from its parent stalk, “I didn’t come this late in the year expecting a vacation. Plus, if Jean needs a hand in the infirmary, I’m more than happy to help out.”

            “Aren’t you going to eat?” Matt chews as he stares at me. I recall being in that seat, and he being in this one while treating Vince with similar disdain.

            _You want me to leave?_

The eye roll is all I need in reply.

“Hey, you know that girl Whitney you dated at Brown?”

            Madge’s pause is almost indiscernible.

            “What about her?”

            “Turns out, she’s interning with Vince. Small world right? Oh, wait, I meant Amanda. Your ex Amanda is interning with Vince.”

            “Cool,” he says mildly and keeps eating.

            “And Lyndsay got married a couple months ago, but I guess you knew that since you are still Facebook friends. You know,” I point to my head, “blue hair, liked mini-skirts? Once danced on your desk in one?”

            Matt sets his fork down. “Ace, why don’t you go get something to eat, your blood sugar’s low.”

            “What was the name of your hookup at the nightclub?” I say next. “Courtney? Chelsea? And I mean the one who wasn’t a teenager.”

            Madge clears her throat and picks up her plate. “Just talk to her, Mattie.”

            I put up my hand. “I know you’re considering a very important decision, so you deserve to hear this.”

            “She can leave if she wants to,” Matt says through his teeth. To Madge, “But you don’t have to.”

            “I don’t want to start a fight between you two.”

            “No, Madge,” I put my hand on her arm, “you are not the cause of this.”

            “You are,” Matt remarks, “and you only came out here to start a fight and get her involved.”

            “She wouldn’t be involved if she was home preparing for medical school like she’s supposed to be. Why didn’t either of you tell me you were seeing each other?” I look at Madge. “If I wanted to date your brother, wouldn’t you be upset if I did it behind your back?”

            Matt leans forward. “Okay, now you’re attacking her? That’s all you know how to do, and that’s all you’ve been doing since the incident. Why? Why are you-”

            “Guys, _stop_.” Madge finishes collecting her utensils onto the plate. “Friends shouldn’t fight.”

            I bite my tongue at the insipidity. “Why am I doing this, Matt? Don’t you think it’s a really bad idea to blow off the girl who repeatedly held your head over the toilet so you could vomit another night of shots? After every Hannah and Katy, I’ve been the person you call to dump your self-inflicted problems on.”

            “Oh, you are such a saint.” He sits forward, lays his arm across the table. “The amount of complaints I’ve heard about your selfless acts of friendship could reach the goddamn moon.”

            Madge rises up, but I grab a ruffle of her skirt.

            “Madge, we both love you. We do. That’s why I’m doing this. I know it’s not what you want, but-” 

            “Every time I’ve ever told you what I want or what I’d like, you tell me not to want it by telling me all the things that are wrong with it.” The firmness of her voice, while still mild in broad terms, is fearsome for Madge. “ _I_ get to decide what I want.”

            “So go find a guy who agrees with that.”

            “Yep, we’re going.” Matt grinds his seat back. “Happy now? You can have the fountain all to yourself.”

            He takes Madge by the arm and pulls her toward the building.

            I get up last. “I don’t just take whatever I want like you do.”

            He whips around. “What have I gotten that I want? What? When have you ever known me to be _happy?”_

            “Mattie, let it go,” Madge grips his wrist. “If you stop fighting, she’ll stop too.”

            “I’m not stopping anything,” I say. “You don’t know this guy the way you think you do. He will make you a human dumpster for all his problems and not even offer to return the favor.”

            “That’s not true,” he shouts, threatening to shout louder. “That is not true.”

            “Matt, come on.” Madge’s cheeks redden, and she’s started tugging on his shirt. “Please?”

            “He’s not even concerned about your feelings right now,” I say. “He’s just mad because I brought up all the girls he’s ever cheated on.”

            “I never cheated on anyone.”

            “Literally the night we became friends you were cheating on your date, and I know that you were dating some other bimbo when you did it with that girl in the nightclub-”

            “Ace, that’s enough,” Madge censures. “We’re going inside, and I’m going to unpack. Matt. Matt,” she turns him around to look at her, “it’s alright. I’m not angry.”

            I’d be throwing the patio set at him by now. “Madge, you need to go home. Too much has happened and this is not a safe place anymore.”

            “You just stop.” She steps forward. “I don’t need you telling me what to do, I don’t. You’re not my mother.”

            Expressionless, I look from her to Matt. “She knows Magneto lives here now, right?”

            Madge’s brow dips and she looks at Matt who has his tongue in his cheek because he either forgot or tried to forego telling her.

            “Matt,” I kick my chair back into place, “come pick up your dirty dishes. I’m tired of doing it for you.”

 

            The pain that occurred when the butt of a Chitauri gun impacted with my skull ghosts through my facial muscles and settles in my teeth. Clint notices how I’m holding myself, doesn’t say anything, hands me a whiskey neat from the bottle under the kitchen counter, and nods at Steve entering the room in full uniform.

            Bracing my senses, I throw back the whiskey and set the glass on the counter. “Cap?”

            Steve nods tiredly, not even looking up from the tablet in his gloved hand. “We can’t get too specific about some of these sites, Ace. Can’t show our cards anymore than they can.”

            “But you’ve gotten some information?” I stride toward him, watching my steady step as my bones feel like jagged metal. “Any dates we can rule out?”

            “Tomorrow,” he says with assurance. “Tonight Natasha and I are paying a visit to an old contact of hers. No need to suit up.”

            Looking at me finally, the shadow below his brows seems to darken. “Are they worried back home?”

            “About HYDRA?” I look past him at a painting on the wall. “They’re just looking at our options. We can’t make a move without a timeframe, and it’s going to be hard on the kids no matter what.”

            “So here is the earpiece you- Hardware, what’s wrong with you?” Tony’s stride hesitates when he catches sight of me.

            Clint crosses his arms behind me. “She’s been hitting the whiskey bottle under the sink.”

            “No, that was you.” Tony points a stylus at him before placing it between his teeth and continuing to talk around it. “Cap, you’ve gotta get moving if you’re going to make the drop.”

            The two men exchange items; the tablet for the earpiece, and the stylus back in its slot.

            “Will you be available tomorrow?” Steve asks as he fits the earpiece.

            “I was just about to ask if you’d need me.”

            “Absolutely.” He nods at Tony. “Natasha already onboard?”

            “Tapping her toes and making rude comments,” Tony replies before winking at me and following him out of the room.

            I reach again for the whiskey glass and duck under the kitchen counter. Clint leans over the edge to watch me, a vaguely apprehensive tone to his voice. “How’re things?”

            “Never better,” I say into the echo-y hollowness of the steel cupboard, grasping the neck of the bottle and dragging it out. Standing upright again, I twist the cap off. “Domestic troubles.”

            He barely blinks. “Not between you and wunderkind though.”

            “No, he’s out right now.” I refill the glass till it’s just a millimeter from the top, and screw the cap back on. Picking up the glass, I stare into its watery reflection before pouring it down the drain. Clint watches in silence as I return the bottle to the cupboard, rinse out the glass, and return it home too. “Stop staring at me, weirdo.”

            “I’m not staring,” he says passively. “I’ve just got nothing better to do but watch you waste good liquor.”

            The corner of my mouth lifts on its own, so subtly it almost tickles. “I’m worried about them, Clint. Worried about my kids.”

            “I know.”

            “And you guys. You’re my kids too, even if I’m the kid.”

            “You are.” He smiles with his eyes first, but his lips follow. “Did your team send you?”

            “No. I just wanted to come back.” I dry my hands with a dishcloth. “New intel would’ve been a bonus though.”

            Clint clasps a hand around his own fist, tempted to crack his knuckles, but holding out. “Are you going back?”

            “Tonight? Hadn’t planned on it. Why?”

            He shrugs. “Settle scores, fix the problem.”

            Crossing my arms, I lean back against the counter. “They don’t want me to be a part of it, but I don’t want to watch them make a huge mistake. It’s sticky.”

            Clint makes a face. “You went and stuck your nose in it didn’t you?

            I study the polished steel countertop, ears closed to the exit of the quinjet.

            The voices coming from Vince’s room affirm that I did not make it home before him. Madge is already asleep on the third floor, and the terse dialogue says Vince now knows.

            “Of course I’d tell Ace, she has a right to know,” he argues, “she practically raised you, you infant.”

            I wince, stepping into the room. “Guys, you’re stressing out the empaths.”

            Matt lifts a hand to me. “Please, come in. You two have always enjoyed ganging up on me-”

            “Oh, shut up,” Vince is standing shirtless in the bathroom doorway, “you left both of us out of it, so both of us are going to be angry with you. Any gang activity is thereby your fault.”

            “I’m not here to gang up.” I try ignoring the pain in my face. “I’m just worried about you and Madge. We shouldn’t have talked like that in front of her.”

            Matt changes his posture, shifting all his weight onto his right leg. “So you don’t think I’ll make a human dumpster out of her for disposing of all my self-inflicted problems?”

            I cross my arms. “I love you, Matt. But you treat tough girls like crap all the time. I don’t want to see how you treat the sweet ones.”               

            “I know what I’m doing.” He says with tepid disgust. “I know she’s different from the others that’s what attracted me to her.”

            “You know how to treat her differently than them too then, right?” Vince asks over his shoulder as he goes into the bathroom and shuts the door. Matt stares after him for a second before looking back at me.

            “No complaints about how he just dumped this argument on you?”

            With this new perspective- seeing Matt attempting an actual, emotional relationship with something other than his own reflection- I observe him as I would a stranger. Tall with good body structure and a warm becoming face. Clear skin, long arms, hair that would blend in with a Swedish crowd; a spoiled twenty-four-year-old child who has decades left to outgrow his selfish upbringing. I know there’s something there that I love, but it’s no longer evident in his features. Not as he glowers at me from across the room.

            “Why do you talk to me like that? Like I’m…lesser than you?” It’s the way I always heard him address his mother. “What have I done?”   

            A deep, deliberate breath swells out his chest, and I can just see him on the cover of a tawdry novel Madge might read in secret. “You’ve changed. Ever since the incident, I haven’t known you. The more we talk, the less I know how to talk to you.”

            He licks his lips and glances again at the bathroom door. “You’ve become shady. I was scared for you during the incident, but then I watched you change and it made me think of Brown. Where did you go after that?”

            Hoping for figurative language, but finding that he meant it literally, I clear my throat. “Canada. I tried to kill myself.”

            His shock is palpable, freezing up my bones as if it were happening to me. “What did you really do?”

            When I repeat what I said, he looks at me like I’m a speck on the wall he can’t make out. “Why?”

            The word is applied with such derision that I feel no point in explaining myself further. Bemused and looking lost he stares. “And you called me selfish.”

            Looking down at his feet, I hear the toilet flush and the faucet running. Matt’s phone plays a beat, announcing a call, and he brushes past me like I’m not even there. The bedroom door swings, and the music gets fainter as Matt walks further away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few chapters left before we end Part Two! Thank you guys for being so supportive, I really appreciate it!


	67. Chapter 67

            The week passes, students arrive, and Madge stays.

            Some kids remained home, mostly freshmen with stable families and tolerant communities. All seniors returned, smiling hopefully as I greeted them at the door and found myself to be a mainstay of Xavier’s. I’ve kept my place in the library since this morning, cramming to keep up with their studies even though the year’s just started.

            The lacquered wood of the tabletop is scored with pencil marks and peculiar dents from generations of students. Their scents are engrained in the seat cushions, book covers, and carpet as though they make the place. I keep glancing at the screen of my phone, tapping it when it goes black, afraid to miss any indication that a demolition date has been drawn from the cracked lips of an unsavory prisoner.

            “They won’t tell you,” says Frida.

            I look up from the phone at the library aide. She sets a stack of books down on the table, a mug in one hand. The chair across from me protests as it is dragged backwards over the floor by the heel of her foot. Her broad body takes possession of it, and as she settles her tattoo rises into view above her neckline, dimly announcing its diabolical presence beneath coffee-colored wrinkles.

            “I,” she beseeches the ceiling momentarily, “overheard the meeting you called ‘bout a week ago.”

            I’m not surprised. Erik suffered a great loss when SHIELD arrested his best eavesdropper and only clairvoyant. “Why won’t they tell me?”

            “Because they won’t know until it’s too late.” She accentuates ‘they’, detouring it from the rest of her sentence. “They have so many other fires to put out they’ll forget. Forget to there’s a school of children waitin’ on their beneficence.”

            Picking up my pen, I remove myself mentally from this conversation before it reels me in further. I don’t need to hear the Avengers put down in this way just yet.

            “Don’t try to ignore me, girl,” she smacks her lips after taking a sip from the mug, “I know the power my presence holds.”

            I set the pen down. “Why are you telling me?”

            “Because I know what you did for poor Pyro.” She drops her chin and focuses a bug-eyed look on me. “And I know what it’s like to be the last person in a dying man’s head. We on the same page?”

            I swallow and meet her eyes. “Alright. So when does HYDRA come?”

            The slender, penciled-in lines above her eyes arch and relax, two cats stretching their backs before continuing to slumber. She takes another sip- French roast, heavy on the creamer- and luxuriates over the position she has me in. “It will be dark.”

            “Night?”

            “I didn’t say that, I said ‘dark’.” She sniffs, eyes wandering the room languidly. “My own brother will be with them. Didn’t make it out of the Fridge same way the rest of us did.”

            I glance at the phone screen. “What can he do?”

            She sighs into her mug, the laden sigh of a creature who has labored too long. “He likes to play in the dirt.”

            I close my eyes and pick up the pen again. “Will any other old friends of the Brotherhood be joining him?”

            “Two,” she says calmly. “Don’t know which two. HYDRA doesn’t yet either.”

            “You know you have to tell the rest of the team.”

            But she shakes her head and looks out the window. “I won’t be here. Neither will Donna or Jolene. Angle says he’ll stay, but he’s always down for a ruckus.”

            “Does Erik know?” Tension builds in my spine at the thought of the rats abandoning their second ship and Magneto rising from the ashes.

            “Erik knows shit,” she proclaims to the empty library. “And you talk to your own teams, I’m just the seer. Jolene near had a seizure when I told her.”

            “When are you three leaving?”

            “Mid-September,” she replies, tucking a hand under the elbow that holds the mug up. “HYDRA should come the week after that. Unless they shoot themselves in the foot again and have to come in October.”

            “Again?”

            “They were supposed to come today.”

            Biting down on my tongue, I sit up straighter. “Frida, you’re making me crazy.”

            “Mm, you won’t need my help.”

            “So, dark, late September, your brother- what else?”

            “Plenty,” she says in reply, “but it won’t all be HYDRA. Mightn’t all be HYDRA, who knows?”

            The bell rings for fourth period, and Frida collects her books again.

            “Do we need to get the students out of here?”

            “They’ll make out well enough,” is all she says. Books, mug, and tattoo trudge back into the shelves from whence they came.

 

            “I’d take Frida’s word any day,” Logan mutters, cigar meeting his lips.

            “She’s lied now and again,” Jean contradicts, arms crossed as she leans back on her own desk. “She once called you ‘that nice man with the drinking problem’.”

            Logan smiles broadly.

            They’re the only two X-Men I could find available during this period. Frida’s knowledge didn’t spur either of them into action, but Jean’s attitude this past month has been of strained patience- in part because she is still concerned for Scott’s mental health and is doing the best she can. Logan’s just behaving while she watches.

            “You want to go outside and light that?” Jean asks.

            Logan gnaws on the end of the cigar. “I’ll wait till the end of the day.”

            I pretend- how very hard I pretend- not to notice the warm look she gives him, and how it calls to mind a look Pepper once had while holding Tony’s hand.

            “Well,” I reach for the doorknob, “I’m not waiting until September. Be back later.”

            Door cracked open, a beckoning of “kid” draws me back in. Logan holds out his cigar-less hand. “You’re fantastic, you know that?”

            I lose to another compulsive smile. “I do.”

            Jean looks sideways at him, her own pretty smile contemplating the conundrum sitting beside her. When my back turns she good-humoredly nudges his leg with her foot, and I close the door.

            My suite is the same whenever I arrive. Sometimes I teleport in purely to surprise it, to catch it doing something different, but it is stalwart in its hotel uniformity. Even my personal effects seem to get whisked into concealment whenever I leave, as though the fastidious maid, robot, or whoever, finds my suggested presence disruptive and unwholesome.

            Over lunch I discuss interplanetary affairs with Thor, get to watch him casually obliterate a 3-ft sub, and afterward find Steve and tell him about Frida’s hunch without explaining how I know. I get home in time to check the library for any students needing help with their homework. There is no one seated at my table except Madge. Turning on my heel I nearly intersect Frida’s lumbering path, and decide I’d rather avoid her than Madge.

            When I’m seated and preparing to speak first, Madge sets her book down on its spine. “I really am so sorry for what happened.”

            “Madge, it wasn’t your fault.” I swallow. “Matt’s been dealt more than he can handle, and he gets difficult when there’s a problem.”

            She swallows too and purses her lips. “I know. He needs help.”

             And she intends to be that help. “Look, Matt’s a good person, but...he’s not the kind of person that improves from being helped.”

            “What do you mean?” Madge lights her fingers on the open face of the book.

            “I mean if you help him because you love him, he’ll take advantage of that love and use you as a crutch. I’ve seen him do it before with other women.”

            “No,” she shakes her head so her bob swings, “Matt’s not like that.”

            “Please, take this from someone who’s known him a long time.” I look at her in earnest. “This is a man who’s been raised by nannies, maids, and pretty girls he met in school.” I’m trying to find the least insulting way of telling her she’s barely more qualified to deal with Matt’s problems than a sorority skank. “You are a very intelligent girl, but he’s like a man in debt who you keep giving your paycheck just to watch him throw it away. Only Matt is emotionally in debt. You can pour your heart and soul into him, and he will burn through that sooner than you can fall in love with him again.”

            Madge has started to look very uncomfortable. I lean forward, as though somehow this makes our dialogue discreet. “Remember when I told you that he had one bad breakup after another?”

            She shakes her head.

            “Well, I did.” It was the morning of the incident. “Matt may love you, but he’s been in love before. He once dated the niece of the CEO of Roxxon for six months. They broke up during Fashion Week because she caught him kissing another model in the makeup tent.”

            Madge looks down at her book. “You’re saying he doesn’t want me because he can date models.”

            “Hell no, I’m saying he got _dumped_ by a model. He was stupid enough to cheat on the heiress of an oil fortune who he’d been convinced was ‘the one’. How soon before he forgets how much you love him and runs into another model?”

            Now she shakes her head hard and closes her book. “No. Matt’s done with those girls, he told me so.”

            My claws scratch lightly over the surface of the table, hidden by my crossed arms. “You believe that?”

            She sets her jaw firm and crosses her arms over her book. “I trust him. You’re his friend, don’t you trust him?”

            Friendship and trust are two entirely different things. “I want you two to be happy. Right now you’re happy, but it’s fake happiness.”

            “There’s no such thing.”

            “There are all kinds of fake happy,” I counter. “Matt’s one hundred and one girlfriends weren’t enough to make him a big coat of happy, what makes you think one of you will? This isn’t a romance novel, Madge, you cannot change him you’re only nineteen.”

            “I just turned twenty.”

            I sit back with my hands out like I’ve been blown away. “Wow, I guess I was wrong. You _can_ handle a small, spoiled child who now has more money than he knows what to do with. Those shallow supermodels won’t be chasing after him with you around.” 

            “Okay, you’re being a jerk.” She picks up the book and pushes her chair back. “I don’t want to talk about this with you anymore because none of that is true.”

            “You can’t just _say_ bad things aren’t true so that they won’t be.”

            “Well, I can’t look at people the way you do, and I don’t know why you’d want to.” She stands up and looks at me with a pitying expression. “Matt is none of the things you said, and frankly I don’t want to live in a world where there are people like that.”

            I stare at the book tucked under her arm, running my tongue over my canines as my head grows hot. “Would you let Jane Bennett marry Mr. Wickham?”

            She jolts as though someone threw cold water on her. Then she relaxes, holding me in a steady, compassionate gaze. “Matthew loves me. Of that I am sure.”

            I watch her head for the exit, telling myself to follow her while knowing I can only make things worse. The light is blocked out and Frida leans down so that our faces are barely inches apart.

“Change of plans. They’re coming sooner.”

 

            Vince steps through the door of the barn pulling his messenger bag over his uncombed hair. “What are you up to, cutie?”

            I lay off stroking the squashy muzzle of an old mare, the velvetiness of her wrinkles and the sharp bristles of her whiskers comforting under my hand. She snuffles, glad it’s over, and plods to the back of her stall for some oats. I lean my arms over the door to watch her.

             “A,” Vince’s voice rises in pitch. “A, you’re shaking.”

            Curious, I step back and the dull rattling of the lock stops. Vince covers the brief distance between us and puts his hand out to still mine. “Come lie down.”     

            “I’m fine, Vinny.” The shaking in my other hand continues.

            “Okay. Can you lie down anyway? For me?”

            I follow him into the bedroom, wash my hands in the sink, and sit on the edge of the bed. “You don’t have to sleep out here with me. We can stay in your room sometimes.”

            “I like staying out here.”

            I smooth the covers with my hand. “Would you mind moving into the Tower for a while? At least until we’re sure the school’s out of danger?”

            “I would mind,” he plugs his phone into its charger, “I would mind very much.”

            Frowning, and apparently still shaking, I try to think of a way to convince him. “You are taking that job offer, yes?”

            He drops his chin to his chest. “Yes, I am. But I don’t want to leave just because HYDRA might drop by.”

            “It’s going to happen very soon, Vin.”

            “Ace, I’m not going anywhere.” Vince slips out of his t-shirt and flicks on the fan. “If the mansion is making you anxious-”

            “I’m not anxious.” I gulp.

            Sitting on the bed he folds his shirt in his lap, eyebrows raised to prove he doesn’t believe me. “This is our home and I’m not abandoning it with you in it.”

            I force a short laugh. “So, if I left it to its fate, you’d move in with me at the Tower?”

            He drops the folded shirt onto the desk. “I don’t want to leave, A.”

            “Then marry me.” I sit cross-legged to face him. “Tonight. We should’ve done it in April like we planned, but-”

            “Okay, just hold on.” He puts his hand out. “First, there’s nothing HYDRA can do to us. This place is armed within an inch of its life with trained superheroes. Second,” he rests his hands on his thighs, “is this because Matt and Madge got engaged without telling us?”

            I lower my brow. “You mean do I want to elope and not tell them for eight months? That would be stupid.”

            “So we agree, you’re being stupid.”

            “Vin, are you sick of me?”

            “No,” he hunches his shoulders and grips the hems of his shorts, “I’m thrilled at the idea of being married to you, but you’re crazy if you want to get chained to a moron like me. You’re always out doing something extraordinary with extraordinary people, while I’m just as confused as everyone else my age. I’m a waste of your time like a-a convenience store clerk married to a world class celebrity.”

            I have to struggle not to burst into tears or laughter. “How long have you felt this way?”

            “What-? Always,” now I’ve irritated him, “ever since high school when you were showing off to Scott and Logan in the Danger Room.”

            “Sweetie,” I put my hand on his knee, “I’ve been too many places and known so many people that you’re completely unique to me. Some other ‘extraordinary’ person wouldn’t be able to handle me as well as you do.” I move onto my knees so I can kiss him. “You’re exactly what I want.”

            He lets out a slow breath. “Have you talked to either of them?”

            “Sure.” I lie back in the pillows. “Matt wants to rule his own life now that he’s loaded, and Madge is singing his praises.” I tug on a strand of hair and twist it around my finger.

            Vince cups my calf. “They’ll be fine. You can’t stop everyone from making bad decisions.”

            Staring at the ceiling, it only takes a slight roll of the eye to see out the window and glimpse the rim of the moon. The wind picked up an hour ago, sending clouds into corners where they huddle bulky and dim. I can’t see the moon as she’s long past now. Maybe she’s even waned away. I’m so out of touch.

            Vince lies down beside me, taking my hand to kiss it and halt the shaking. “Thunderstorm again?”

            I’m not losing them this time. The moon will watch me not lose them. “I’m fine.” Turning over, I smooth the hair on the side of his head, the cool brim of his ear rubbing against my hand. “I told you, didn’t I, about the people who adopted me?”

             The fan whirs gently, flicking stray hairs over my face. He’s watching these when he enters my head. _You called them a village because it took them all to raise you._

I smile with my eyes to avoid the default frown of my lips. _I_ _don’t want a reenactment of what happened to them._

            Vince’s pupils pool as he watches me under heavy brows. “There wasn’t anything you could’ve done.”

            Heat burns in my cheeks and nostrils. Vince stares at my collarbone, or maybe just the small stain on my neckline. He doesn’t reassure me further, doesn’t tell me not to regret or to stop thinking about it- he hates it when I do it to him. Instead, he presses a hand to my ribs and his lips to my neck, leaving intent with every wet kiss.

            We’re deep into it once the storm erupts. Sweat trickles between my shoulder blades, the fan failing to keep up. Vince’s fingers press ephemeral bruises into my thighs, and the crux of my spine aches. Biting my tongue, I press my fists harder into the shifting mattress, momentarily separating his moans from the elemental fervor outside. 

            “God,” he kneads the pliable skin of my thighs, “you gorgeous thing.”             

            Thunder shakes the building, feeding my head its roaring. I throw my head back, try not to shake, not to scream, but the pressure’s building. The rain will drown me, filling up inside my ribs, in my nostrils. Vince groans like an animal and kisses my neck, pulling me down against his chest. “Stop. Calm down.”

            I keep going, spurred by the catch in his breath, his heat, and the hollowness of his body. Crying out, I bite into the pillow just over his shoulder, his fingers in my back spreading my skin. With a grunt he turns us over, and I hold his head in both hands and press his forehead to mine. The rain claws at the windows, frightened, enraged. Vince breathes hot against my face, kisses me hard, and finishes us both.

            Minutes later, I’m lying on my stomach. Meticulously, he pulls back each strand of hair. “You have to decide when we stop. I can’t always read you, baby.”

            “We weren’t done yet,” I pant. The pillow is damp against my cheek. He ties off my hair and lays it over my shoulder before leaning down to kiss my temple.

            Pulling the covers back over us, he lifts my arm over himself. “That’s not as important as what you need.”

            “I needed that.”

            He lies flush against me, our skin still soft and uncomfortably warm. I lift one leg so he can move his knee between them, and turn onto my side. Now there’s a valley between our torsos where air hangs in a pocket beneath the sheets. Here his hand is free to roam, mapping my body with his fingers. “Tell me what else you need.”

            To melt in the rain.

            “Why?” his fingers drift over my stomach.

            It sounds so easy. Like a sand castle eroding away, to be washed into the earth and disappear among the grassroots.

            “Do you still want that?”

            No. Now I only want you.

            Curious fingertips make me gape. “Tell me-”

            “Don’t stop.”

            Vince is a more refined version of himself when we’re in bed. He speaks warmly, touches me thoughtfully. His psyche brushes through mine like a fine comb, separating my sanity into thin, organized strands even as his hands grip with unintentional force. His jaw can pry mine open, and his legs maneuver me. Yet, still he’s delicate. I’ve needed my whole life to be regarded as firm but not unyielding. Vince has no desire to push me beyond what I can handle, but the times when he tilts me just over the line make me worry that I haven’t done enough for him.

            I imagine us out of this sweltering bed, out in the grass in the rain, skin stinging from the cold, mud beneath my back, and the sounds he’s making into my ear as he presses me into the earth, melting with me as we raise up beyond the atmosphere.

            _“Ace.”_

            The rain floods out of my eyes and he collapses against me, breathing hard, tears smearing over my torrid skin. Kisses on my neck and shoulders, begging to be forgiven for pushing me so far without asking. But we’re still in the rain, and the mud is on my back, and I panic because I don’t want him to come down with me. He’s above me. He deserves fresh air and a warm sun. Don’t melt down here with me. I couldn’t live with myself if I dragged you here too.           

* * *

 

            Her breath creates a small circle of warmth against his chest. Then she scoots up so their faces are barely an inch apart. She sniffles and looks into his eyes, studying him as if he were the first human she’d ever laid eyes on. Sometimes she seems so alien this girl, like a perfect creature from another planet dropped here by accident. But then he’d have her in bed, feel how human she really was, and suddenly he was a lower life form made holy only by her grasping arms and vice-like legs, her atmosphere saving him from choking in his own insignificance.

            Silently, she strokes his cheek with the back of her hand, long, ghostly strokes across his jaw. They travel to his ear, her fingertips outlining it, playing with his lobe. His hair rises as they meander down his neck gracefully, barely touching him. Pinpricks of being are transferred through her touch. Her thumb dips into the notch of his collarbone and he sucks in his breath. Her fingertips slide along the underside of his chin where they take hold of it and she kisses him softly.

            He must know her too well because he braces himself for the rough, strong kisses that will soon follow. And they do. It chills him to feel her canines sometimes scrape his skin, or pinch his lip. She’s terrifying, this alien girl. He knows for a fact that while she may dig her feline claws into the mattress to spare him, her canines she has no control over. And yet he craves these animal affections, hoping one day to understand why she buries them so deep.           

* * *

 

            Bright sunlight. Like last night didn’t happen.

            He drinks coffee at the desk, showered and dressed. He doesn’t look away from the computer screen, but his soft morning voice says, “Hey, beautiful.”

            I breathe deep, fill up my lungs, yawn, and let it go. “They email you?”

            “Interview in a couple days. Guy loves my work, and we both like the same innovators- he’s a real Iron Fan. If you got him an autograph I’d probably get a pay raise.”

            I stretch every fragment of muscle, listening to tendons and bones moving in their allotments. “I’m really excited for you. This sounds like it’s your thing.”

            He sips his coffee. “Who do you want to take with us to the county clerk’s? We need a witness.”

            Sparrows flutter into the bush outside the window, chattering self-centeredly. “When is this happening?”

            “Right after lunch.” He sets the mug down on a stack of his notepads, steam curling faintly into the air. “So, in like, two hours. You got ID?”

            I throw my arm across the pillow and let out a huff of air. “You want to marry Amy or Rebecca?”

            He snickers. “Rebecca is what you get for asking me to pick a name.”

            “It’s better than Ace.”

            “Okay, weirdo, I’ll marry Amy.” He shakes his head. “You want my last name, or should I take yours once you make that up too?”

            “Mm, this is your last chance to ditch ‘Detmer’ and become Hofstader.”

            My groom-to-be cracks up. “Hofstader? That settles it you’re going to be Amy Detmer, no backsies.”

            The lunchroom hums with second-week excitement. A few students I didn’t get a chance to see last week run up and hug me, and one or two I poke in the arm as I pass by. In the staff dining room, Vince pulls out a seat for me and gets our food himself. The room is similarly a-hum as teachers share vacation photos and exchange insults. The ones at our table discuss business with me and name students of theirs who will need my help soon. Vince returns, sets my plate in front of me, and calls another staff member a name to make them laugh. Halfway through the meal he brushes my hair away from my ear and leans in for a whisper, but kisses the side of my neck instead. _Last night was incredible._

            I feel myself blush and take a drink to cover it. _Unreal, I thought._

            His hand slides down my back before returning to the table. _You’re unreal._

            I swallow and look at his hand, at the light brown of his skin and the artfully drawn lines of his knuckles. I’m marrying this.

            I just barely hold back a laugh, and he looks at me funny before smiling and looking away again. That’s the most ridiculous, unbelievable, outlandish thing that will ever happen to me. Not superpowers, not evil scientists, not time-travelers, intergalactic warriors, or vigilantes in costumes. I’m getting married. I _want_ to get married. To scrawny, tempestuous Vince of all people. Life can’t get any weirder.

            Above the clamor, Vince jolts as his phone vibrates in his pocket, checks the ID and asks. “Ace, where’s your phone?”

            I left it in the bedroom. “Who is it?”

            “It’s restricted. Does Stark have my number?”

            Even as he offers it my arms deaden. Vince hits send and answers himself. “Hello? Yeah. Hold on.”

            Forcing a breath, I extricate myself from the crowded table. “Hey, Steve.”

            “I’m sorry this is why I’m calling.”

            “I know. When?”

            “Tomorrow night around 1400. We’ll be in Oceania at that time tamping down an insurgence, and they’ve clearly planned it that way. I wish there was more we could do.” Steve’s voice wades somberly into this sentence. “Tony’s offered part of the Iron Legion-”

            “No,” I lean back against the stairwell, “thank you, but we’re prepared for things like this.”

            There’s a barely audible sigh on the other end, and I can see his heavy shoulders rising another inch as he does so. “Good luck, Ace. Report back when it’s all over.”

            Sliding the phone into Vince’s pocket, I pick up my half-finished meal and head for the kitchen, alerting all X-Men within my range to meet in the study. The kitchen door swings in, out, and in, and with one of these sweeps Vince is whisked into the room as well.

            Perhaps I begin shivering again and that’s why he takes both my hands, turns them up, and kisses my palms. Perhaps the pained groaning of chairs being pushed back in the next room is not a sign that the X-Men are arising, or that I called my first team meeting in an anxious telepathic tone.         Vince presses my palms together and kisses my cheek, stirring a long forgotten memory of ours.

            _We can take it._


	68. Chapter 68

            Fog settles over the woods and the peaks of the roof. It obscures the end of the drive and the path from the lake, licking the far wall of the stables that faces the tree line.

            Storm’s milky irises match the shocking platinum of her hair as she stands at the edge of the balcony with her hands balanced palms up on the railing. I stand back at the door beside Charles, adjusting to the rapid change in the atmosphere, and listening carefully to the quiet packing and preparing within the rest of the mansion.

            Four seniors pooled their resources and got two hotel rooms for them and their friends. Moving all of the students in this way would require time to organize that we now lack. Emma hastily arranged for transport to take from-home students to a nearby country club she owned, one with lodging and kitchen staff, before being informed that since her ownership was legally under question, the club was unavailable for her usage. The from-home kids stayed.

            A small harrumph behind us gets me to turn my head, but Erik is still seated on the edge of his bed, and I surmise he was only clearing his throat. Frida and the two women left just as she said they would, and the remaining ex-brethren are on lookout at the fog’s perimeter. They were adamant in retaining this duty, and while I’m yet inclined to be wary, my empathy noted their compensatory guilt.

            At eight o’clock sharp all the students climb into bed, dressed in their day clothes and each with their coat beside the pillow. When the old grandfather clocks strike two and digital alarms hum, the students will get up, take their coats, and head to their assigned emergency exits. The bunker-like tunnels above Cerebro, the hangar, and the Danger Room cannot be accessed by the elevator, and were added as a precaution during the Cold War. Go the right direction, and they lead a good distance away from the mansion and empty into the woods.

            By 2:07 there are one-hundred-and-seventy-two kids aged ten to eighteen huddled below ground- supervised by staffers and braced against subterranean chill by their coats- waiting for the signal to head for the woods. Vince is down there with his own group while Matt and Madge left for a hotel too, taking younger friends of Madge’s with them.

            The X-Men stand at the windows, in the yard, on the terraces, and at the perimeter, with Charles in Cerebro, and Erik seated outside its door. Sensitive listeners wait at all corners of the campus- Hank by the gate, Logan and another mutant at opposite ends of the back hedge, and I by the path leading to the lake.

            For an hour I strain to hear through the dense fog, before walking into it and following the sound of gravel beneath my feet. On the other side I can hear again, smell the lake around that bend where a sycamore leans over the trail, the tips of its leaves starting to turn brown. There are no animals in the vicinity, and most of all there is no moon to cast light, only the stars of this smear of a galaxy. Knowing Charles will grow concerned, I slink back into the fog until the sound of a horse shifting its balance returns me to my senses.

            Three am passes, then four. Dawn breaks without so much as a knock at the gate or the distant hum of a helicopter. The kids go back to their beds, sleep in on a Thursday, eat their prepackaged breakfasts and lunches at the same time, before catching up on homework. Charles leaves Cerebro, says he can’t tell what direction HYDRA may be coming in, and even checked in on the Avengers in Oceania. No one was coming, no one intended to come, and Storm needs time to reboot.

            The seniors came back on Friday- they couldn’t afford to stay more than two nights- and Matt and Madge’s party returned too because Matt didn’t like the hotel. “No helicopters after all, huh?”

            I gave him a thin smile.

            “Rogers doesn’t have quite the eye for the field we thought, has he?” Erik simpered.

            “How long did Frida say?” asks Vince.

            “That they’d be gone a week before HYDRA hit,” I rub my finger over a scratch in the hood of his car, “and there will be no second warning from the Avengers.”

            “So we’ve got until Tuesday, three days.”

            “Approximately.”

            “A’right,” Logan steps into the garage wearing his favorite jacket, “let’s go.”

            Vince fiddling with the GPS is my first whiff that he’s nervous. The steering wheel becomes slippery, so I grip it tighter. Logan sits wordlessly in the back seat.

            On the return trip, he drives and the two of us sit in the back. “Do me a favor and save the wedding night for when you get home, eh?”

            We sit with our fingers entwined, silent as the black landscape rushes by. “Thank you Logan.”

            He arches a brow in the rearview mirror. “It’s what you have me for, darlin’.”

            “Thanks, Logan,” echoes Vince.

            “You’re welcome.”

           

            There’s an urgency to us tonight. I don’t for one second perceive us as frightened, and neither does he. But tonight is another ending to another Before. There will be an After, and I don’t know yet what it will be, but he’s telling me in no small terms that we’ll be together. It isn’t even a question hanging in the tumultuous air between our lips, a notion silenced by the rhythm of our bodies. All the things we said we could take, all the wrecks and aftershocks that didn’t crumble our feet or break our knees have joined forces. We are not afraid. 

            When it comes time, he rolls me onto my back and barrages me with love. For Vince I’m never enough and always too much because- like all other nights- his hands can’t find a place to stay. There’s Braille on my body that only he knows, and tonight he’s rereading it as if there’s something he’s missed, some mystery of me, some secret he’s still to unlock. I swallow, and keep my lips sealed as his mouth roams. Then, he returns to the present, and we’re once more a force to be reckoned with. I catch him as he falls and hold him to me, hold him away from the world, because he is the first thing that is finally mine.

 

            Late summer heat lingers. I pause by a young ash tree to wipe the sweat from my brow, letting scents sift and flow through my nostrils. Muted and invisible, I scan the forest for brain activity, coming up with squirrels, shrews, and waxwings. A single raccoon trundles its way through the brush, probably headed for the lake. Every living thing within a hundred yards scurries through my ears, sniffing, scratching, and foraging. The man concealed in the loam behind the poison sumac breathes lightly, unaware that his day-old body odor has a way of leaking through his warm fatigues.

            Circling behind him, I take in his camouflage uniform, the short range rifle he’s carrying, and the cord curling from his ear. Further search produces nine more men and women dressed and armed similarly. _Logan._

            _Yah._ He’s searching on the other side of the mansion and I can just barely hear his response. _They’re not HYDRA._

            _Military._ And nobody special cloaking them. We theorized that perhaps HYDRA had a telepath cloaking them from Cerebro. If these troops have been staked out for only a day, it would explain why Charles hasn’t noticed them yet as they are well beyond his standard range outside Cerebro.

            Out in the murky, muffled distance I hear a faint thrumming. It grows steadily louder, causing the hairs of my skin to stand upright. The ten soldiers react in kind, abruptly rising from the earth like they weren’t once a part of it, and stealing forward.

            _Stop._ I order hastily, even putting up my hands as though they can see me. They halt in their tracks, and the thrumming evolves into a persistent auditory abuse.

            Logan’s mental trace is faint and growing fainter still as he retreats, unable to stop his troops. _They’re….tunnels._

            Vaguely I grasp his meaning, just as the helicopters streak past the canopy, sending the treetops into a flurry. My soldiers look up, each keeping the muzzle of his rifle aimed at the forest floor. I leave them as they are and teleport to the nearest tunnel entrance.

            More helicopters fly over, but the insulation of the tunnel prevents me from hearing more. The soldiers I commanded to retreat do eventually run past the tunnel entrance, but I can’t be certain they’re not the first wave. Finally, the echo of hurried footsteps greets my ears from inside the tunnel. I stand in front of the barred door and watch as a row of faces come into view. A mixed relief settles in my chest when I see Madge and Matt at the forefront. “Okay, when you’re out there look out for soldiers heading for the mansion.”

            “What do they want?” Madge asks, hand in hand with one of her old classmates.

            “Don’t know, they might just leave you alone. Get as far as the first neighbor- a nice little old guy- and wait for the all clear.” I put my hand on the bars and push the door open, sharing everyone’s tension as it screeches. “Matt and Madge are in charge, and if anyone gives you trouble-”

            “Ace, something’s wrong with the tunnel,” pipes a nervous student.

            “What’s wrong with it?” I ask.

            All their voices chip in, “It’s shaking. I fell and scraped my knee. Dust came from the ceiling. I slipped too, but somebody caught me, was it you? It felt like an earthquake. The lights went on and off.”

            When I put up my hands they all shut up. “Matt, make sure to keep them quiet when you’re out there. If a soldier or anyone does give you trouble, knock him out with a loud noise, okay?”

            “You want me to attack people with my ability?” Matt asks with the same irritable tone he always addresses me with lately. “Seriously, what is wrong with y-”

            “Alright.” I step out and point in the direction they need to go. “Move it.”

            The kids push past him, and Madge counts heads as they go by. She leaves last, but for Matt, and puts a reassuring hand on my arm. “Matt, c’mon.”

            He steps out, jaw tight, keeping an eye on me. “That’s what you’ve been using my ability for, isn’t it? As a-”

            I mute the remainder of his accusation and enter the tunnel at a steady jog. Each group I encounter receives the same message about the soldiers, and they in turn repeat the message the first group gave me. Students turn up with dust and rubble in their hair, phones and flashlights out as the lighting system continues to flicker. The deeper I go, the faster I sprint, careful not to fall after each strange tremor. I’m almost to the end of the tunnel when I hear a metallic groan and bricks falling to the floor. The lights snap off for good this time, and their sudden betrayal reminds me. Frida’s brother likes to play with dirt.

           I tally the people running past me, estimate an equal number escaping past Logan out the other tunnel, and calculate the remaining number that needs to evacuate. The group I come upon in the dark sounds like the largest group yet. Phones and flashlights dance across the walls, shivering as dust falls through the beams. Two girls, our youngest at eight and twelve, are crying into someone’s shirtsleeve. A phone light crosses over them at the center of the group clinging to Vince.

            “It’ll still be there when we come back.” He stands with his arms around them, grip tightening as another tremor strikes. “It’ll be okay.”

            A light crawls over my feet then bounces to my face.

            “It’s collapsing down there.” All lights turn to my voice. “You have to go back the way you came.”

            Vince touches the arm of a boy student and nods his head at the wall panel behind them. “Go open it again.”

            “There’s a crack,” shouts an older male student, and all lights turn to that too.

            “Out,” I yell over them, not in alarm. “Back up.”

            The mansion trembles uneasily as we hurry through the halls and out the mudroom door. I ‘call’ Kitty before we make it onto the lawn, informing her as to my suspicions on the cause of the tremors. The wind is at a violent rip, and the sky black with virulent clouds. Vince hides the eight-year-old behind him as we see a HYDRA agent lying face first in a flower bed, a blackened stain in the grass by his feet.

            Bits of grass, leaves, and dirt streak past us. Bobby leaps the terrace to join us, Piotr on his heels.

            “Jerry’s got a car out on Graymalkin by the edge of the woods,” Bobby shouts. “Head them that way.”

             “Gunners,” Piotr bellows after him. “Hold them off.”

            I head for the terrace railing as Bobby takes my place at the head of the group and Piotr’s gleaming Colossus takes up the rear. The first gun barrel to appear over the railing gets jerked down, HYDRA sicko along with it. A hearty punch to the helmet with my metal fist, and the asshole’s out cold. Storm’s wind started up too late to stop one of the helicopters at least, its blades visible over the other railing. Seven other HYDRA stop at the corner of the mansion to gun me down, and thirty-two bullets return their way- not breaking their armor, but certainly some bones.

            I jump after the group of students with Bobby and Piotr, and rip the helmets off four oncoming HYDRA. Two lose their balance, one falls, one raises her rifle, and just as the wind comes to an unlucky standstill, blood bursts from the side of her head.

            Three more shots and the other HYDRA agents are gone too. In the still air, I hear and smell students hiding behind the hedge next to the dead woman. I run for the hedge, but duck as another bullet sings past me. Force field up, I hold out my hand to the hedge. Bullets pepper the field until the students appear in the soldiers’ line of vision.

            With the wind frozen in place, the air becomes humid and suffocating. My heart jumps into my throat as sweat beads behind my ears. Storm is livid.

            I climb the terrace railing and drop the force field, making sure I’m out of sight in case the soldiers feel the need to-

            Hitting the deck, I roll away as someone takes a swing at me.

            _“Bitch,”_ snarls Meech.

            Unconsciously, I groan out of frustration, and as those grimy claws launch again for my throat, I _push_ him back as hard as I can over the railing. Spine cracked, soldier seen, bullet riddled. Bile rises in my throat, but I push it down and move on.

            The front doors are thrown open, perhaps from the tremors’ growing strength. Shattered helmets and guns lay strewn about the Humvees parked in the roundabout, and I can hear Beast roaring somewhere around the side of the house. Invisible, I phase through a vehicle, knock out the guy hiding on the other side, then hunt down the next coward firing in Hank’s direction from behind a tire.

            “Ace!” Vince stands in the open doorway of the school.

            “What the hell are you still doing-”     

            “I had to get the rest of the kids,” he shouts back, leaning out to glance in the direction of the gunfire before pulling his head back in. “I’ve got seven.”

            I drop the gun I confiscated into the driver’s seat of a car and lock the door. When I’m at the bottom of the steps, Vince disappears inside and the students and staff hiding behind the doors rush out. Vince does not.

            Getting the seven to the tree line is less dangerous than it was last time as the soldiers have oddly disappeared, though I do have to keep them from spotting the slain HYDRA and one gory Meech. Bobby meets us, the perspiration above his brow appearing as frost. “What’s up with Storm, what happened?”

            I have to raise my hands in ignorance and run back. The ground buckles and I fall hard into the lawn. A few of the students shout, and Bobby calls me to make sure I’m okay. Faster, I leap onto the terrace railing and jump down. _“Scott.”_

            Where the hell is he? Where are any of the X-Men? The sky still churns with clouds, lighting still lances down here and there threatening to incur a forest fire- something Storm would never allow. Rushing to the front door, I see no Vince or other students. There’s shouting inside, and the reverberations of HYDRA’s helicopters trying again to land.

            A lamp is broken in the hallway, a painting fallen on its face. I count on my hands the number of soldiers I find lying dead or unconscious, some with familiar triple-entry stab wounds. The house shakes and… _burns._ The temperature seems to rise inside my skull and I back away, from where I don’t know.

            _Vin…Vince?_

            The choppers land in the front lawn, dispensing more HYDRA. Fifty-six, I sense fifty-six minds now swarming the lawn. I didn’t even try to count, the number just popped into my head. I drop to my knees and hold my head as the mansion shakes. The pain in my head ebbs and flows, an aura glares at the edge of my cornea, rippling and writhing.

            There, I feel him. No, he’s moved. Moved again. Forcing through the pain I get up and follow my nose, judging that the burning in my head won’t affect my sense of smell. If he’s moving his psyche around like that then he feels the burning too.

            A desk is pushed against the other side of the classroom door, negating the doorknob. “Guys, it’s Ace.”

            Whispers, the desk is dragged away, and Vince reaches out to take my hand. Silently, we escort this group out the side door as HYDRA storms the building. Bobby is already waiting, guarding the entrance of an ice tunnel that leads into the woods. “Where is everyone?”

            Vince surprises me by saying, “They’re downstairs. I think the military came for Magneto.”

            I stay at the back of the crowded mudroom, watching the hallway as students file out the door and into the tunnel. Each HYDRA agents that approaches I convince to go back out the way he came. Once all the kids are through, Vince is beside me again. “There’s two kids hiding in Scott’s office, and at least ten hiding up in the girls’ dorms. I know there are more-”

            “Great, I’ll find them,” I nudge him toward the side door, “now make sure they all make it to Jerry’s car, he’s got it pulled over by-”

            “I’m not leaving you here.”

            “Don’t give me that.” I push him a bit more forcibly. “It isn’t safe here, so _get out_.”

            “You can’t get all these kids out of the building by yourself-”  

            “Then I’ll get Bobby in here.”

            “He’s maintaining that tunnel,” Vince pushes me back as far as the hallway. “There’s no time to argue, we’re getting the kids.”

            The building jolts and I press him against the doorframe as the ceiling groans. “ _Go_ before the building falls on you.”

            “Stop worrying about me and get the kids out.” His voice lowers an octave. “That is your job.”

            We both wince as the burning sensation reoccurs. Another quake throws us into the hallway, where we slide over the smooth floor until he grabs my arm and pulls me up again. I can hear students wailing on the upper floor, so we split up- he for the kids in Scott’s office and I for the people upstairs. By the time I get them down, Bobby has left his post by the tunnel, but Vince is already there waiting after sending his kids through. Together we run back into the building, pushing our burning telepathies to find the rest.

            HYDRA seems to have dispersed just as quickly as they invaded. My stomach lurches when the floor buckles beneath me, wood splintering and nearly swallowing me into a dark hole where the foundation has crumbled away and exposed a tunnel far below. 

            Teleportation is the only way I get kids to the mudroom now, but I won’t dare it again. Kitty stands by the entrance this time, counting the kids I’ve got with me. Once they’re dashing down the dripping ice tunnel, she catches my arm before I can leave again. “It’s not him.”

            “What?”

            “Frida’s brother, I caught him burrowing down there and kicked him in the nuts hours ago.”

            “Then what’s tearing the house apart?” I shout over the mansion’s moaning.

            “I was hoping you knew,” she replies just as loudly. “Where’re Scott, Emma, Jean, and Logan? We’re losing the battle out here, and Hank’s about to pass out from the heat.”

            “Geez,” I wipe my face on my shoulder, “Vince is still in here and you won’t know where to look for kids, otherwise I’d say let’s trade.”

            “I’ll work with Vince,” she says. “You go help Hank and Pete.”

            Just then the remaining members of staff and a few students push through the bowing doorway looking exhausted. Vince appears last. “That’s everyone, ‘cept the X-Men. They’re still downstairs.”

            “That’s it,” Kitty slips past us and into the hallway. “Ace, you go help the others.”

            I look at Vince, panting, dust in his hair. Carefully, I wipe some away from a long scratch on his face. “C’mon, hero. Go with the others, I’ve got maniacs to-”

            He collides with me as the walls and floor finally give way.


	69. Chapter 69

            The first thing he becomes aware of is a pain in his hip. After a moment he laughs for thinking he might never walk again. It’s his car keys in his pocket. The laugh bounces off the ringing in his ears. When he looks over, knowing she’ll be unharmed and ready to rumble, he sees only a length of floorboard, its polished sheen marred by dust and detritus. He looks along it, up to the splintered end aimed skyward, pointing to the space where the roof was.

            Experimentally, Vince moves each limb, and finds his legs intact beneath the rubble. He manages to brace one elbow on a layer of concrete, but has to press his left arm to the length of floorboard and grip the edge. Slowly, he pulls himself up, rubble budging slightly to fill in the space.

            “You’re making me slide.”

            He looks up in the direction of the voice somewhere in front of him. Raising his chin, he can see the top of her head over a section of roofing. “My legs are stuck.”

            Ace groans quietly, and rubble rolls off her as she lifts herself. “How’d you end up down there? Gimme your arm.”

            Vince thrusts his left arm out, keeping his right elbow to the concrete as leverage. Ace moves onto the lawn- he can see her fully now on her hands and knees- and grips him below the elbow. “Push.”

            With her tugging, Vince manages to wiggle his hips and knees loose. Ace puts out her other arm and scoots back on her knees. Finding footholds, he lifts his elbow off the concrete and reaches for her hand. Both of them gasp as the burning sensation fills their heads again. But the ground doesn’t tremble, and the rubble doesn’t shift and secure him tighter.

            “What the hell _is_ that?”

            Ace squeezes her eyes shut, and takes his hand. “C’mon, push again.”

            Soon he’s lying on his side in the grass next to her as she checks the tear in his pant leg. He knows he’s bleeding, can feel the warm wetness traveling around the curve of his calf.

            “It’s superficial,” she reports. “You’ll live.”   

            “What do you think about kids?”

            She turns her head. “What?”

            “Kids. Want some?”

            She bears no expression, her chest rising and falling three times before saying, “Sure. You can explain to them why mommy will outlive them.”

            “Yeah, but you’d be able to watch our great-grandkids grow up.” He feels like he’s shouting. Maybe his hearing damage is permanent. He’ll worry about that later.

            She mutters something, perhaps encouraging herself or deriding him, and stands up brushing off her uniform. Sitting up slowly he takes a moment to breathe, and to assess the destruction of this corner of the mansion. “You still feeling it?”

            “If you are, I am,” she replies, perhaps blinking away the aura. “I have to go find the others. Maybe Kitty got to them in time.”

            Vince swallows, his tongue feeling cakey. “Strong building. I doubt the lowest levels can’t handle a little seismic activity.”

            Ace waves a hand at the tree line. “Get going, boyfriend.”

            “Still?”

            “Until I get used to ‘husband’, yes-” Her body goes rigid.

            Vince looks over his shoulder, sees no one, then looks back at her and carefully stands up. “Are you…is that you?”

            Stones from the broken wall, bits of flooring, shingles, and even the doorframe slowly lift into the air. Gravel blown in from the driveway gently rises around his feet, spinning in place. Ace continues to watch over his shoulder. A branch cracks in the forest.

            “Get out of here.”

            Vince backs away, still unwilling to leave her in danger, even if he’s not worried about the outcome, even if he knows she’s capable. When a snapped twig bounces off his ear and spins away he finally turns and runs.

            When he turns, I can turn. My body shivers in an attempt to teleport, but I stop myself. I no longer know these grounds, I can’t trust where I’d end up.

            The Hummers levitate over the driveway, wheels turning slightly. Inside the mansion, furniture rubs against the ceiling, and the fringes of rugs pinned in place pose like oddly colored grass. The mansion groans in its every joint. Racing down the halls to the elevator, I reason that since I’m not floating this rules out natural phenomenon.

            Before I get there, the elevator doors open, get stuck, and the shrill malfunction alarm rings and rings. Kitty appears around the corner, and I suppress shock to see students following her.

            “They were hiding in the Danger Room,” she answers sharply. “Get out of the building.”

            “What’s happening, where’s-” Of course, they all run past me. I continue toward the elevator, hear rapid footsteps, see Emma, see that she’s mortified to see me, and steel myself for a dispute. “Emma, what’s hap-”

            “It’s Jean. Just get off the property, it’s Jean.” She stalks down the hall, looking over her shoulder like someone’s following her. A telepath should know when someone’s following.

            “Where’s the Professor? He needs to be-”

            “You are not listening to me,” the woman grabs my arm tightly and pulls, “we need to leave _now._ ”

            I try to shake her off and the aftershock aids in separating us. I land flat on my back, feel the ground tilt and the furniture above our heads falter. When I hear the shouts of anguish coming from below, Emma wrenches my arm and drags me to my feet, pushing me down the hall.

            The students huddle on the stairs bookending the front doors- some crying, others blank with fear. HYDRA sprays bullets indiscriminately, knowing their likelihood of hitting someone in perverse gravity is still high. I don’t have to catch the bullets as they perforate the walls, bursting only so far into the room before becoming suspended like dewdrops in a web. Emma’s skin turns to diamonds, and she charges into the fray.

            The burning within my skull steadily increases. Force field up, I get the kids out the front door and onto the roundabout where cars, bullets, and gravel float like a bizarre asteroid field. Lightning flashes, reflecting in the windows and mirrors of the vehicles. There is nothing to the west of us to run to, and I’ve already forgotten why a car pulled over by the edge of the woods is a safety or even a promise.

            Whipping around, I stretch the force field to cover our left flank, catching the Hummer as it hurtles through the air. A clamor goes up behind me, and some of the students hit the ground. The grill of the car is inches from my fingertips, the metal and plastic corroding in the field. He’s brethren, or ex-brethren, or brainwashed by HYDRA, but affiliation no longer matters. I don’t know his name, only his features and the fact that it took repeated optic blasts from Cyclops to subdue him.

            The kids run for the woods at my command- the fight has switched to that side of the house, and Kitty and Emma know they’re coming. They will be defended.

            I vomit the vehicle from the field, and it rolls across the driveway and onto the lawn. The air shimmers with heat, sweat slides down my neck, and my head’s about to burst. That’s Jean too, I finally realize. The mutant lunges, I dodge. There’s blood up and down his arms and staining his jumpsuit. It does not smell like anyone I know, so it must belong to a member of HYDRA or of the U.S. military.

            Underestimating his agility, I’m yanked across the gravel and one massive bloody hand covers my face, nails digging in. I phase through, armor up, and release my claws. Ice solidifies around his arm, and metal claws lash at his eyes. He underestimates my strength and the effect of a steel-toed boot to the groin. With a twist, I roll out from under him, and _shove_ so that he’s a measure away from me. Jump to my feet, enter his mind, and tell him to go to sleep.

Instead, I scream. Clutching my head, I kneel and clamp my mouth shut– still screaming. Through the inferno that deep, black darkness floods my vision. Pyro’s last thoughts, the five men in the alley, the six Chitauri in Manhattan; red blood, purple blood, the way your skin starts to itch and sting as it dries. Memories turn inside out, blend, cavort, like someone’s taken a whisk to my brain.

            My body gets up on its own, walks forward, and trips over the mutant I sent into too deep a sleep. Stones, dirt, bullets bounce off my body as it forces itself away from the epicenter. Then the ground buckles, and my hands let go of my head to grip the grass. I gasp, the burning lessened, and look up at the milling students, trying for the trees footed by black, faceless men with guns, but turning back again and again. Hydra, hydra, hydra. Cut off one head…

             The students stop their screaming as HYDRA turns on itself, each man shooting the man next to him. The pale trunks lose their black keys, and the people look at me- some stumbling backward. My trembling body lifts itself. “Where’s Emma?”

            A brown-haired girl with bags under her eyes steps out of the group. “She’s with Scott and the Professor. Xavier’s hurt.” Beyond her, a man made of ice gives me a long look like he’s never seen me before.

            The roof over the girls’ dormitory caves in and the floors around it sag surreally for an agonizingly long second before succumbing to the power of gravity. My subconscious says this has happened before. 

            “The lake. Get them to the lake.”

            The kids start running, but I have to tear down the hill- the slowly steepening hill that wasn’t here before- and grab the sleeve of a boy who’d lingered too long. His fingers grasp for my sleeve, the leather alternately giving him grip and sliding out of his sweaty hand. Meanwhile, out of the corner of my eye where I know not to look, the mansion is being swallowed. Yank him up, wrap an arm around his waist, and jump just as the ground parts from our feet.

We slam into the loam, weeds and sticks flying, the world a clothes dryer tumbling and whirling. I land hard on my stomach and grip the ground for a long second, making sure it’s solid. The boy lies gasping on his back a few feet away. He’s not the kid who needs an inhaler is he?

            Twelve kids come running over right at that moment, lift him off the ground, lift me to my feet, and brush us off, all of them either weepy or stone-faced. Kitty shouts from somewhere else in the trees that they follow her and Bobby.

            “Do we have everybody?” I demand, counting heads, listening for the sounds of incoming.

            A girl shakes her head and looks quickly in the direction of the mansion. “Where’s Dave?”

            “Has anyone seen- Dammit, Dave,” I see him dangling from the low branch of a tree, “don’t do that.”

            Dave falls and scrambles to his feet. “There’s a body over there.”

            Some of the students shriek as Colossus runs up behind them from the direction of the school. “Don’t stop. We need to get clear-”

            Dave shouts a vowel and rejoins the group as I head for the sound of shifting leaves. Pushing brush away, I look for the place Dave would’ve seen from the tree, expecting an injured HYDRA agent peering down the barrel of his gun. His scent clouds my nostrils.

            Piotr flattens the brush in response to my shout, but I’m already on my knees, hands pressed over the dark blotches in Vincent’s shirt.

            “Get Madge,” I order, “get Madge, at the Cartan house, _run_.”

            Vince coughs, first nothing, then blood. The trauma is fresh. “Vinny, sweetie, sh, it’s okay. Vinny, look at me, please.”

            His eyes move, but not in my direction. He coughs, but does not react when I press down harder. The blood gathering between my fingers makes my heart pound. This isn’t really happening.

            “Hey, hey,” I hold his head in one hand, “stay with me, sweetie. Madge’ll be here soon, you’re alright. You’re alright.”

            Smoke. I imagine smoke, imagine fire creeping up the trees behind me, inching closer. Lowering my face, I just barely kiss him on the cheek. “You’re not alone.” Smoke and blood and rotting leaves. “I’m here with you, and you aren’t alone.” Sweat and shampoo. I touch the rim of his ear with my lips, projecting every beautiful memory I can into his psyche. He feels them, I know he does. _I’m right here with you. It’s alright. I’m with you._

            His leg shifts, his head turns, and he makes a sound deep in his throat. I hold onto the feel of him in my head as the temperature rises. Piotr’s footfalls are unmistakable. I press my forehead to his, remind him I love him, and watch the sunset from the rooftop one last time. This is not really happening.

            There is no noticing Madge dropping to her knees beside him, or Piotr pulling me away. There’s no noticing the dead body of the mutant woman Locura- who hated him the way he once told me she did- also shot, but many times more. There’s no noticing the blaze scouring my flesh and singing from the heart of Xavier’s. Only the helicopter blades, whipping in slow motion and attempting a final escape, catch my interest. I reach my hand out into the blackened air, grasp the blade so it strains to a stop, and plunge the machine into the ground.

 

            Their teachers didn’t let the fire get very far. Ms. Munroe and Mr. Drake used wind and ice to douse the flames. Ms. Pryde, the guidance counselor, ran ahead to see what had become of Ace, Logan, and Dr. Summers. Except for the silent apocalypse of the embers, there was no sound from the direction of the school.

            After Ms. Pryde returned, they all had to march back to the soccer field where graduations, picnics, and after school sports took place. The field was singed where it met the mansion, but the mansion fire was out too. Some of them cried, but the teachers had them turn around and not look at it. Tents arrived, and so did food and water. They sipped and ate and watched the tents be put up. When the fireflies came out, they landed on the sides and the tops of the tents, and it almost looked like a demure county fair.

            Storm and Piotr climb carefully into the sinkhole that was the mansion. Emma said that there was life down there, but the earth had stopped shaking and everything that had been floating had returned to the ground. HYDRA bodies litter the place, though there had been dozens of them alive before the fire started. The range of causes is alarming: some have been shot, others have necks broken, and a few appear to have simply fallen asleep.   

            As they climb deeper into the ruins, Storm is the first to hear the eerie sound. Piotr holds her arm as they edge down the shingled peak of the roof before climbing over an upturned bed. In the failing light, Storm sees enough to cover her mouth and nearly back into a pit, but Piotr clutches her arm.

            The eerie sound pauses, continues, then pauses again as Logan weeps intermittently over the three, deep stab wounds pierced under Jean’s ribs.

            The world is too lucid as it spins, the kind of dream you never quite believe didn’t happen. Each step feels like it will connect with nothing, that the earth won’t be there- then it takes enormous strength to lift off again. Even the breeze moves in slow-motion, but I try to ignore that.

            I can see them all huddled around vans, a few tents thrown up. I don’t know who the vans are, but the kids are safe. My mouth tastes like iron and there’s a crust over my lips making them hard to open. In a floodlight I catch sight of my blackened hands and arms, and try to hide them.

            As I enter the camp, I don’t recognize anyone, can’t name the faces around me. They look back like they can’t recognize me either. Someone big is in front of me and I tense up because I didn’t hear him coming. The thick layers of soot on his face and body make it hard, but I realize it’s Colossus. I can’t hear what he’s saying, his brows are high and bent, eyes red, and he’s putting his hand out for my shoulder.

            _Come in and clean up._  

            So I obey, since it is him, and he leads me with dizzying speed into one of the tents. His grip is too tight. A damp cloth, still white in places, is hastily pushed into my hand. I sit down, and an orange blanket is thrown around my shoulders. Water, the very last in a bottle, is put in my other hand. I look up, but Piotr is looking away with his face in his hands, trying to breathe. Shrugging the sweltering blanket off, I pour the water onto the rag and wipe my arms with it.

            Then Madge is there taking the rag from me. Tearstained, she folds, unfolds, and refolds it looking for the cleanest spot left. Then she begins to wipe my face, and I see the bloody smear as it’s pulled away. Matt takes her by the shoulders, but she tries to resist, crying, calling. But I still can’t hear anything. Her fingers are tight around the rag, but he pries it out and drags her away from me. I look at the rag on the ground, wondering how it’s so red. I don’t remember ever bleeding.

            Thinking Jean will know where to get more water, I get up to look around. I sit hard on the ground, struck by great, shuddering quakes as I fumble for the rag. Panicking, I look for Vince, and the last few waves of reality crash into me.

            Biting down on the filthy cloth lets the teeth marks in my tongue heal. I scream as hard and as long as I have breath.

 

            The blinking light on the monitor has told the same news for days. I take Charles’ hand. There’s nothing when I touch his skin, but that’s to be expected. I dropped my walls hours ago, and have sat here patiently asking him to come in, promising to show him how I’ve hidden from Cerebro all these years. I’m still waiting for a reply.

            This is the only thing any of them trust me to do. Emma stays far away, leaving me as the only telepath left with any capability of reaching him. I wipe my eyes with my other hand as the monitor light blinks in my periphery. Each heartbeat of my own echoes his, yet I can’t find his damn psyche. I can’t. They’re expecting me to, and I can’t find it.

            I let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Part Two
> 
> Updates for Part Three will begin after I've gotten a chance to study Marvel's Phase Three (watch Civil War!). Until then, there will be updates on 'Regenerate: Intermission'. Thank you guys for reading this emotional rollercoaster! Love hearing from you.


	70. Chapter 70

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part Three

_March 2016 - 18 Months Later_

          

            Their sources were liars to start with, now mercenaries expecting payment for each syllable pronounced. Word had it HYDRA never identified the Level 5 that demolished the school- barring them from Cerebro- but they did the one massacring them. Before the last transmission sputtered out, all eavesdroppers knew the name of the avenger.

            I told Steve it was all true.

            My room and possessions I willingly relinquished to whoever needed them, and I slept nights at the Tower. The abundance of voicemails, notes, and gifts taped to my door or left in the fridge reminded me to stay healthy and sane. I averaged four hours a night, lost twenty pounds in the first six months, and remained a member of the X-Men until today.

            Wanda clinks glasses with me as we stand in her open doorway. “To moving in.”

            “Again.” I arch my brow and tilt back the wine. 

            After losing a husband and a brother between us, watching our homes crumble and our consciences split in two, Wanda and I have developed the framework for what should be a deep and lasting friendship. Maybe she believes that. I can’t see into her head even for a second to find out.  

            As she swallows, she smiles. “That’s the first time I’ve seen you look happy. It’s a good look.”

            “Same to you.” I hold the façade for a full second more. It’s embarrassing to cry in front of them. Bruce handled it better than most, but he’s not around anymore.

            “So,” she smacks her lips, “where do you think I should put the rug?”

            “In the closet or under the bed.” I lean into her room and take in the comfortable modernity of it. A college dorm crafted by a perfectionist. “It always looked pretty ugly in my room.”

            “No,” she draws out the word like I’ve hurt the rug’s feelings, “it is beautiful. I put it by the desk.”

            No one at the mansion wanted it, and whenever I look at it I remember all the times Vince interacted with it, remember his clothes and books obscuring it.

            The moment comes when Wanda turns her back and I can return to my own room. Shortly after Sokovia, the Avengers moved into this compound upstate; more spacious than the tower, glutted with equipment, and surrounded by lush acreage to keep the peasants and news hounds away. None of the furnishings from the stable room made it to the bedroom I keep here. It’s as different from the rooms we spent time in together as I could get it. Still, I look to the bathroom door hoping he’ll walk in toweling off his hair.

            “You want my room? It’s big.” Steve smiles his joke smile, the one that’s gotten comfortable with people not laughing.

            I sweep corn flakes off the dispenser and into the trash.

            “Have you heard from Clint?” he asks, stirring his coffee with a steel spoon.

            I shake my head and eat an almond in his presence, stirring my fingers around in the jar. “He called you though.”

            “He did call me,” Steve nods in line with these words, either reminding himself that I hear everything, or approving of me for having heard. “He says your phone’s been off again and he’d like you to keep it on.”

            The rough skin of the almond is followed by the smoothly sweet meat. 

            “He also said that if you’re going to turn off the outside world, you should head to the farm.”

            I lid the jar and push it away. “He could at least visit.”

            Steve arches a brow and taps the spoon on the edge of the cup. “He’s stopping by this afternoon.”

            When Clint arrives, I’m waiting outside the elevator. On the ride down I press the back of my head to the wall. “Is Nathan already crawling?”

            “Nate’s already climbing the furniture.” There’s that honeyed tone he gets when he talks about the farm. “Lil’ likes to stay inside and watch him when Cooper’s on the dirt bike.”

            “Oh, he likes it?”

            “He’s already broken a finger falling off it.”

            I imagine Clint’s oldest tearing circles into the pasture. “I’ll have to come out and race him one of these days.”

            “He’d love that.” Clint doesn’t turn his head to read my expression or see if I’m smiling. “Lila misses you. She’s grown an inch and wants to see if she’s as tall as you yet.”

            My face flushes and I peer at my shoes. Clint tilts his chin upward. “Got two floors left-”

            I scoot over and lean my head on his shoulder. He takes my hand, squeezes it fondly, and leans his head against mine.

            “Laura says you’re completely welcome to come out anytime.” He lowers his voice. “Get away from all the stress, climb trees with the kids.”

            I brush my hair out of my face- it’s gotten long again. The elevator tones, so I pull away from him and return to my corner. The doors open, and we step into the garage.

            In the car we compete to see who can name the most songs on the radio. He gets all the songs he knew growing up, and I get all the ones I heard in high school. We come out even. By the time we make it to the sports bar, I’ve thought of Vince thirty-two times and cried none. Clint squeezes my arm.

            “Should I retire too?” I ask, somberly torturing the last cooled fry in a bath of ketchup and tartar sauce. “Come live on the Barton estate?”

            He nearly spits up his drink at “estate”, stifling the laugh that shows in every crease of his face. “It feels like you just joined.”

            “We joined on the same day- four years ago.”

            “Right, but I’d been with SHIELD for- Never mind, you’d been working long before that.” He mashes a cloth napkin between his hands. “Why do you feel like retiring?”

            I abandon the French fry and try to scoop up a refried bean with a soggy tortilla chip. “I just don’t know what I’m working toward anymore. I joined mainly because Vince insisted it would be good for me. He’s the reason I even moved into the Tower.”

            Clint shifts on the stool. “You never told me that before.”

            Perhaps I’m lying. It has been a while. “He insisted it was good for me, that all of you were good for me. I think he was just living vicariously through me.”

            After the tab is paid, Clint settles me into the car, makes fun of the way I ate and how much I ate then pinches me to prove he’s teasing. Buckled in, he looks over. I don’t say it, not now that he’s come to expect it. Wordlessly, he starts the car and we pull out of the parking lot. On the main road he takes the usual turn, and quietly I thank him.

            The two-story house is the lovechild of rusticity and glamour; sufficiently pristine, white with eggshell shutters, and a modest number of pillars. Bare tulip trees and naked Japanese maples crowd the edges of the semi-circular, fourth of an acre front lawn, barring passersby from the view of the side yards. Bridled wisteria crawls along the railing of the upper terrace like raw sinew, and disappears around the side of the house.

            “How far along is she now?” Clint asks, leaning back so I can take in the view.

            “Seven- eight months?” I’ve only recently begun listening to mothers in the park. “It’s going to be a spring baby in any case.”

            He points to the eaves of the second story. “Laura’s always liked that style. We agreed it wouldn’t match the rest of the house though.”

            When we’re driving away, I put my hand on his arm. “That was the last time. Thank you.”

            One hand leaves the wheel and covers mine.

            We’re back in the elevator, heading up, when I put my arms around him and hold on. He does likewise, and we stay like that until the doors open.

            Sam and Clint hug heartily in the den, make rude comments about each other’s preferred sports teams, and I slip away.   My room, my asylum, closely resembles the room I grew up in- basic, utilitarian, sapped of color. Taking off my jacket, my jeans, and the long-sleeved sweatshirt Natasha thought made me look “healthy”, I sit down cross-legged and put my hands in my lap. Outside the sun has set, and I watch the landscape change with the fading light.

            There’s a brief knock on the door before Clint lets himself in. “Can I bug you?”

            “Of course.” The door is never unlocked, but I heard him coming.

Knowingly, he closes and locks it behind him. Then he takes his seat in the brown armchair he picked for me and lets out a long breath. “So what now?”

            I look at the glossy gray fibers of the carpet. “I gave Wanda the rug. She said she liked it.”

            “Yeah, she told me.” He doesn’t look away now because this isn’t the elevator. “What’re you thinking?”

            I pinch the carpet and pull on it. “Just the same things you’ve heard a thousand times; why wasn’t I with him, I should have gone with him, I shouldn’t have sent him away. Yesterday I realized my last words to him were ‘get out of here’ and that took hours to get over.” I bite my lip sharply.

            Clint clasps and unclasps his hands. “You don’t need to get over any of it, Ace.”

            “He was all alone, Clint. I made him leave _alone._ ” I grit my teeth. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He goes tense whenever I apologize, but he knows I know so he doesn’t say anything.

“What will you do?” he asks. “Now that you’re here. Will it be like when you moved into Xavier’s?”

I turn to look at him then away again. “Can you go back to being fourteen? It’s impossible.”

            He nods a row of satisfied nods, showing that to have been the real answer he was looking for. He needs this wound to close up on its own.

 

            Tony leans back in the lounge and crosses his legs. “So I say, ‘Well, isn’t _that_ very Wilson Fisk of you?’ That gets a rise out of the guy…”

            Everyone laughs once the story is over, but I’ve heard it before. Natasha has too because she raises an eyebrow at me from across the room, so I smile. Smiling has become a kind of reward I dole out like cheap candy. If I smile enough times, they stop trying to make me.

            But Natasha wasn’t aiming for a smile and turns her attention back to the group. Occasionally she reminds me of Storm who made me Jean’s proxy for several bleak months, forgiving Jean’s sins by forgiving mine. I wonder if she’s found happiness in Africa. I wonder if Bruce is somewhere safe.

            When Sam’s jokes and Wanda’s laughter become more than I can handle, I rise and leave the nucleus. Outside the room is a walkway suspended over the ground floor two stories below. The glass barrier on either side is not made to be leant upon, but it’s elbow level so I lean on it anyhow. The glass wall through which the expansive manicured grounds can be seen is only a few yards away. I imagine jumping through and making a break for the trees.

            The door opens, I submit myself to what’s coming, and Tony strides over. Smiling through his concern, pretending to have left the room casually, he leans on the barrier too. “I miss you.”

            “The fun me?”

            “Any you. I just,” he lifts his hand and brings it down on the rim of the barrier, “want to see you happy.”

            Tony doesn’t receive fake smiles- he’s seen enough during his lifetime and already reacted badly to one of mine. Instead he gets a half-smile to prove I’m making an effort.

            “I’m not always going to be like this.” I look over the edge at the slate gray tiling far below. “This is just a jumping off point.”

            He likes that answer. “Always looking ahead, urchin. Jumping off to what?”

            “Don’t know.” I could stop myself before I hit the floor. “I’ve never been here before.” I was here as a preadolescent, survived for a while, then went mad as Ophelia and tried to drown myself. Puberty is so dramatic.

            “One way of putting it.” He looks out at the lawn, thinking his own thoughts. “How come you haven’t visited? I keep expecting you to break in the new place.”

            “I’ve got this place.” He’s lonely again. “You’ve got Pepper.”

            “This is true,” he pops back up, “but you always manage to liven things.”

            “I do? With you around?”

            He waves a dismissive hand that says she’s used to his antics. “We should get together, have coffee, talk shop. You two always seemed to keep a conversation going.”

            The last time Tony suggested this scenario it included Vince. Practicing restraint, I wait before responding. “That sounds nice.”

            “Good.” He pushes off the glass and offers me his arm. “Shall I escort you back, dear?”

            Give him a full smile for his effort, even if you don’t show teeth and it hurts a little. Let him reseat you beside Wanda because everyone thinks girls of a certain age should automatically be friends. Wait until Clint says he better head out- your cue to inconspicuously extricate yourself from the sinking couch cushions, even though they all know your routine by now. The elevator is where you finally fail.

            “Hey, hey.” Clint wipes away the first tears with his thumb. “Stand up straight. Don’t do that, stand up straight. C’mon, sweetheart.”

            I always try, I want to, but the more he asks the harder it is to comply. He resorts to propping me up so I can cry into his jacket, wishing he knew better what to do. He at least, hasn’t given up.

            Ten seconds later, I reach the end, forcing myself to suck it up. Clint won’t move until I’ve been breathing normally for a couple seconds.

            “Hey,” when he raises his eyebrows his forehead wrinkles like a bulldog’s, “you’re going to be okay, tonight. Okay? And tomorrow you’re going to call me and we’ll talk, and I’ll put the kids on the phone. Lila will tell you the entire plot of _Inside Out-_ she won’t stop watching it.”

            The doors open to the garage, but he keeps one arm around me.

            “Laura and I already talked about moving you out there, but I didn’t want to suggest it to you until you’d been here a little while.” He taps the button to keep the doors open. “Don’t give up Avenging until you’re ready.”

            I cross my arms. “Does Laura know what I did?”

            “No, she doesn’t need to.” He squeezes my elbow. “Just keep us as an option.”

            Looking up, I meet his eyes and see that unwavering honesty. I kiss him on the cheek. “I hate it when you go.”

            He presses the button one more time. “Don’t know when I’ll be back. So, keep your phone on.”

            Then he kisses my forehead and leaves. I think again about running for the woods.


	71. Chapter 71

            Sleet encases the hangar in a noiseless fury, and the grenade shatters inside a bubble of force field. I see the kick coming in time to clap my hands and smother the explosion before I hit the concrete floor. The mercenary shouts when he’s jerked off his feet by one leg, fracturing the tibia. Crossbones- or Rumlow as Cap keeps calling him- is already ahead of us, his team of ex-HYDRA and other skilled losers having kept us occupied in the hangar long enough for him to make it into the facility. Any second now Emil Blonsky will tear through that far wall and gleefully rip us to bloody shreds.

            Vision at least has already phased through the wall after them. I jump through the yawning twin doors, and run down the halls to the containment chamber below. At the top of an open flight of stairs a bullet sears into my suit, throwing me off balance and over the railing. Telekinesis stops me from smacking into the cold floor, and I’m back on my feet and invisible before a second bullet can keep me down.

            SHIELD still claims to run this place, so there’s some return fire to cross through as I try to catch up to Vision. His scent is unique, but inorganic and too subtle for me to trace. When I locate the containment chamber there is no one around and the chamber remains sealed. Laughter emanates from some other room, and there I arrive in time to see Crossbones and another man escape out the back in a cloud of smoke. Vision watches with indignation, and drops the man he has in a sleeper hold.

            “Why even in an ice storm can’t we catch them?” I reappear and slip past him into the clearing smoke.   

            “Because they consistently outnumber us,” there’s a hint of frustration in his mellow voice, “and we consistently let them.”

            More and more people want to stick it to the Avengers lately. I phase through door after door until I reach an antechamber. A trolley of mechanic’s tools was shoved before the door, startling me when I can’t see myself waist down. The chamber contains three tired old halftracks, a fourth one missing, and the storm shield wide open. My breath blooms in front of my face as I touch my earpiece.

            “He’s in the wind..”

            “Blonsky?” asks Cap in alarm.

            Vision approaches from behind.

            “No, Rumlow,” I say. “Blonsky’s still in his cell.”

            In the following silence I cup my hands around my mouth and nose for warmth. I turn my back to the wind and look at Vision, then at the object in his hand.

            “Did he even want Blonsky?” Natasha queries. “How would he handle him?”

            “He wanted the serum.” Vision hands me the broken cap of a metal vessel. “The duplicate used to enhance Blonsky.”

            Through the palm of my glove the coldness of the metal still pierces. Somewhere, Steve’s mouth is set in a grim line as he ponders the rapacious nature of modern science. I roll my eyes. “I’ll go get it back.”

            I pull on my hooded mask and teleport into the ice. The vehicle’s tracks have already been assimilated by the snow, but my telepathy can keep up with the two men.

            “Ace, you’ll freeze to death,” Rhodes soundly reminds me. “Stay in here.”

            Like I’ve ever taken orders from you, Rhodey. I teleport forward, stumble in landing, jump forward again, slip on the ice and feel pain shoot through my fingers. With my own icing ability I insulate my hands, hoping that slows rather than quickens the onset of frostbite. One more jump lands me beside the rambling truck.

            They hear me phase in, but can’t stop me from snatching the containers of serum jostling between them. Crossbones blurts a filthy expletive, knowing full well who’s robbing him, but the guy beside him isn’t stupid enough to fire his gun inside the cab.

            The containers roll across the hangar floor as I barely stick my last landing. Wanda rises from the unconscious mercenary she was examining. “Are you alright?”

            I unzip my suit and stuff my hands into my armpits. “Am I blue?”

            She shakes her head even though my mask is still on.

            “Then I’m alright.”

            SHIELD personnel jog over to retrieve the containers, looking all urgent and nervous that these priceless tubes of gunk were almost lost. Defunct property of defunct people.

            On the quinjet, Sam shakes his head at me and tucks his mechanical wings away. “You’re as nuts as Steve sometimes. Couldn’t have grabbed Rumlow too, huh?”

            “Shut up.” I rub my hands together.

            He steps away from the cockpit as the rest come aboard. “How many we get?”

            “Nine.” Steve’s expression is annoyed. “Where does he keep finding these guys?”

            “SHIELD killed two of the mercenaries,” Vision adds regrettably.

            Rhodes’ faceplate slides back and he shivers. “Only two got away this time. Maybe next time we can call it a win.”

            “I’d like to see what one looks like.” Wanda hugs herself and straps in.

            We’ve barely been home three minutes when one of the aides rushes up to me. “There’s a voicemail for you.”

            She couldn’t at least let me leave the hangar bay first? “Who from?”

            “The headmaster of Jean Grey’s Institute for…He said his name was Summers.”

            My mood sours immediately. “What did he want?”

            “It was about something you needed to pick up. Here,” she fiddles with her work phone, “I transferred it for you.”

            I wish I’d just grabbed Crossbones when I had the chance.

            I approach the new school from the direction of the lake because the horses are the only individuals worth visiting. The front gate, the gardens, even some of the hundred-year-old terraces had to be ripped out and I hate seeing them gone. When I find that the horses too are gone, I consider going no further.

            “Where are the horses?”

            Scott sighs, this not being the greeting he was hoping for. “They’re stabled off-campus for now. We sold Brenda.”

            “I liked Brenda.”

            He sighs again and finally finds the key for his office. “You got my voicemail I hope.”

            When I don’t reply he looks at the ceiling like he’s offering up a prayer.

            “How’s Emma?”

            We enter the room, and I can’t tell if he’s giving me a dry look or not. “Why do you ask?”

            “Just wondering if she plans on making an honest man of you.” I don’t care who helped you through your grief, your wife hasn’t even been dead two years and you’re already spooning a bottle blonde. “Or are you just with her for her money?”

            Scott runs his tongue over his teeth, his hand on top of a package on his desk. “You know, Ace, you make doing favors for you a real chore.”

            I cross my arms and stay in the doorway. “Is it from him?”

            “Logan? No.” Scott clears his throat and sits down. “I would’ve forwarded it, but Kitty only gave me a phone number-”

            “Who is it from?” The man can never just get to the point.

            Scott leans back in his seat. “It’s from someone named Kirstin and it’s addressed to Vince.”

            Time stops at the sound of his name, and it takes a moment to comprehend the words that came before it. The package is in my arms before I remember who Kristin was and why she might matter.

            “Had it been from Logan I would’ve waited for the address.” Scott balls up his left hand. “Do you know what it is?”

            I don’t. Probably possessions of his she held onto all this time, but now she’s getting married and wants them gone. “If it’s ever from Logan, don’t forward it. He wants to communicate, he can come back.”

            Scott swallows, but withholds his thoughts and feelings.

            “You hate him, right? For killing her.”

            His brows bend painfully at my bluntness. “No. No, I hate that I didn’t think of another way. When the Professor couldn’t calm her...when I couldn’t calm her…”

            The box is starting to get heavy. Before he can ask if I hate Logan, I move on. “Do you know what triggered her?”

            Scott puts his hand over his mouth for a second then rubs his cheek. “With everything that was happening, her ability just…overpowered her.”

            He chews his lip and keeps his left hand in a fist. I hold the box tighter.

            On my way out I see Emma approaching from the opposite end of the hall. Her showgirl outfit hasn’t changed any, and the teenage boy she’s discussing an assignment with is struggling to keep his eyes on hers. Both stop when they see me, and the boy hastily dismisses himself.

            Emma glances at the box. “I didn’t think you’d actually come up here.”

            “Down" would be the proper preposition as the compound is many miles to the north and she knows it. I shift the box to one arm so it looks like less of a burden. “Hopefully it won’t happen again.”

            Scott steps out behind me. “Emma, did you need something?”

            I turn to leave without saying goodbye. Something inside the box shifts, and I look back to see Scott and Emma disappear into his office. Through the walls their conversation is dull, professional with Emma expounding some point and persuading him to see her side of things. The new headmaster’s neck is easily turned.

            Scott’s brow is crooked as he opens the door again for me.     

            “How long have you two been together exactly?”

            He just stares, but Emma sits up straight in her chair behind him.

            “You have your box, isn’t it time for you to leave?” Her voice hits a persuasive note. “You’d hate to be here any longer than you have to be.”

            I keep my eyes on Scott because if I look away he might disappear too. “You weren’t sure what triggered her, you said. Did she coach you on how to lie to a telepath, or did you learn that from your mistress?”

            “What the hell- Ace.” Scott steps forward. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

             “Did Storm and Logan know? Is that why they-”

            “None of that is any of your business.” His face is a hue I haven’t seen since I last caught him weeping. I can’t be sure now if the tears were grief or guilt.

            Nothing’s stopping me from ripping those glasses off his face. It would hurt him more than it would hurt me. “They died because of you.”

            I expect the instant aggression Logan would receive, but instead Scott bites his lip and the tendons in his neck stand out. Emma gets up from her chair and pulls him into the room. A stone cold glare in my direction has me phasing through the door after it’s slammed in my face.

            “How do I know you didn’t convince Logan to kill her?” I ask. “You’ve embodied him before, you had no respect for him- how do I know you didn’t just kill her yourself and make us all think he did it?”

            Rage crackles behind her glare, but her voice remains flat and hard. “Find your way out the door or I’ll help you there myself.”

            Too furious to reply, I turn my gaze on Scott sitting in the chair holding his head in his hands like his neck can no longer hold it up.

           

            The soft huff of the punching bag sounds like a great injustice taking place. Hitting it harder does not relieve anything, but I am aware of how violent I seem when Steve appears.

            “You alright?” He stands behind the bag and holds it in place. “What happened?”

            Ignore him, hit harder.

            “Was it Summers? What’d he call about?”

            My knuckles pop and my feet are sweating on the floor. Steve braces his legs and puts his weight into the bag. It’s like hitting a solid wall and that just makes me angrier.

            He moves his fingers after a close hit. “Ace, stop.”

            I have to do it. I have to tear it down. One last uppercut hard into the vinyl and he finally grabs my wrist. I don’t want a change in emotions right now, so I phase away.

            “Enough,” he barks and pulls back the bag.

            Breathing heavily, I put my hands on my knees and lean down. The blood is rushing to my head, throbbing in my arms and hands. “Don’t ask me anymore about what happened.”

            “I won’t,” he promises. The bag’s chain clinks. “Are you staying-”

            “No.”

            “-in here…”

            I swallow. “No, I’m done in here. You can have it.”

            “I mean I can spot you if you stay.” He lets the bag swing back into place. “If you need a break the team will understand.”

            I stand up slowly, staring at a spot on the floor inches from his foot. “Just for the next one, unless it’s Rumlow. I should’ve grabbed him like Sam said, but I was being stupid.”

            “We’ve all made that mistake,” Steve amends. “That’s why it’s taking us so long to stop him. We’ll get him next time.”       

            Warm air rushes from the register in my bedroom as I exit the steaming bathroom. The package from Kirstin sits on the bed; its contents a chemistry book, a pair of socks, and a red palm tree on a keychain. I didn’t move any of it in case his scent still lingered between the pages of the book- I don’t want him to disappear from there too. The keychain reminds me of his car which was crushed in the incident, and that he never got to drive a Lambo, or an Audi, or the 1971 Comet he dreamed of his sophomore year.    

            I kneel by the window. Outside the trees are still bare and crows light on the frosted grass only to take off again. Soon it will be another spring, followed by another summer and another fall. There will be two anniversaries; one I never got to celebrate and one I never wanted to memorialize. Both will occur in the same week. Letting my limbs loosen and relax, I close my eyes.

            My head jerks against the wall sharply enough to make my neck twinge. The shelves rattle, and my head is momentarily numb from shock. Then the pain arrives and I welcome it.

 _No,_ I press my hand to my head, _that was unfair. You didn’t deserve that, you did nothing wrong. I’m sorry._

            I press my face into my knees and clench my jaw until the pressure overwhelms the pain. You stayed for the kids, you stayed for Storm, you stayed in case Logan came back. You stayed because you felt close to Vinny until you realized you can never be farther away from him than you are right now.


	72. Chapter 72

            The aide has a clipboard this time to go with her apologetic wince. “Sorry, but-”

            “No,” I drop the weights back on the rack, “I’m not taking calls from Summers- I don’t even care if someone’s dying.”

            “Oh, no,” she shakes her head and checks her notes, “it’s that lawyer again. He wouldn’t say much, but he did say you breached your restraining-”

            “Katy,” I lean over the weights to look her in the eye, “no more calls.”

            As she walks away, I wonder if Matt had security cameras installed on the house. No, Clint was in the way, the cameras couldn’t have captured me. I wouldn’t have let them.

            Sam claps his hands together and purses his lips in an anticipatory smile. “I think you know what I’m thinking.”

            “That you’re ruled by your stomach?” He makes telepath jokes when he’s hungry. “I showed you how to make it yourself-”        

            “I know, I know, but I promised Natasha we’d spar. She’s teaching me all the ways not to die if I’m attacked by a crazy Russian chick. Anyway, would you do it? For me?”

            Hell, I forgot, they’re friends with the neighbors across the street. I heard someone in the house, but I thought it was the maid. “Sure, Sam, yeah.”

            Skipping backwards, he points at me with both index fingers. “I owe you one.”

            The team’s gone by the time the pie is done. This isn’t the first time I’ve stayed home during a mission- it’s standard to leave one or two people behind- but it is the first time I’ve chosen to. Like the other times, I make myself a cup of coffee and head into the map room.

            While not officially titled “map room”, two whole walls are dedicated to a screen featuring an interactive map of the world. Blinking lights in varied locations designate current trouble spots. We don’t address all of them, we can’t, but having an overview helps prevent chaos in future. Right now, the team is in Central America rooting out arms dealers and their light on the screen flashes yellow.

            FRIDAY, the feminine artificial intelligence that replaced JARVIS when Tony uploaded him into Vision to fight Ultron- geez, what a sentence- reliably pulls up media coverage on a separate screen. “Nothing yet; they’ve kept the element of surprise. Would you like it translated?”     

            The commentator is speaking Spanish, but I might as well learn that too. “Closed captions only, please.”

            I cross my arm to support my elbow and bring the mug to my nose. I wonder which lights on the map are being attended to by the X-Men. I wonder how, in fact, they know where trouble is anymore. It seems to be everywhere.

            I sip my coffee. “What’s the beacon in California about?”

            “Some kerfuffle between a mercenary and an enhanced.” FRIDAY rolls her “r’s” beautifully. “Eight of the beacons are mercenary activity.”

            “They just burst from the woodwork when SHIELD’s gone, don’t they?” Maria Hill no longer hangs around because she’s too busy trying to bolster the comeback agency, and these creeps aren’t making it any easier. “Are we familiar with any of these jerks?”

            “I can provide facial recognition and profiles for all of them.”

            I touch the beacon in California; traffic cam and satellite imagery pop up showing a low-class neighborhood in LA. “Is public safety threatened here?”

            “Local law enforcement is already on the scene. The bugger stirring a row is a frequent bother, but he’s generally involved in isolated incidents.”

            I take a long sip of coffee. Except for an officer directing traffic away from the ongoing fiasco, not much is viewable. It isn’t far from Vince’s old university.

            “I’ll check it out.” I close the window. “If the team’s back before me, let them know where I am.”

            I land in an empty street. Jostled cars, a smashed storefront, and gouges in the asphalt mark the trail of chaos. Crashing and yelling comes from two blocks over, and someone is attempting to quell the disturbance with a megaphone. Picking a building, I teleport onto the awning and pull myself over the faux second story. I cross to the roof of the neighboring building, and squat on the corner of the parapet for a better view.

            Two men, one dressed head-to-toe in red leather and the other appearing to be some sort of oversized mutant hybrid are having a physical confrontation. The man in red is so armed to the gills I can’t see how he made it out the front door without being arrested. The hybrid-mutant-thing rips up a UPS box and hurls it at Red, who overdramatically dodges it. The police “barricade”- there are about six cops haphazardly boxing them in- flinches en masse, and the megaphone falters before the officer loses patience and starts barking out threats. To my amusement, Red snatches the megaphone away and sarcastically repeats the threats to Hybrid.

            Eventually, Hybrid gets close enough to the barricade that I hear the rasping snap of Tasers going off, and know it’s my turn to intervene. The shocks only anger him further, like they would Hulk, so when he turns to retaliate I put him to sleep. The giant curls up sweetly in the intersection, and Red climbs atop him and pats him on the head like a loving parent tucking in their toddler. No wonder we ignore these guys.

            “Taming troublemakers again?” Steve smiles and helps himself to a slice of pie.  

            I turn around on the couch and lean over the back to watch him get a fork out of the drawer. He tugs it open, and it rolls smoothly on its tracks before the handle bumps against his thigh. The tips of his fingers disappear inside for a second before he selects one flawless steel fork, holds it between thumb and forefinger, and conscientiously pushes the drawer closed again with his other three fingers. He never slams it, never carelessly sends it back with a twitch of muscle. He won’t pick a fork from the center of the stack so that the rest become crooked and their tines slide together.

            He sits on the couch adjacent to mine, and sets the plate and milk glass down on the coffee table, the fork never leaving his hand. “Wanda tried that technique you showed her. Worked perfectly.”

            The edge of the fork severs the tip off the pie, cracking the sugar coating on the crust, and sinking through the cooked apple.

            “Is there a problem between you two?”

            I relax my facial expression and shake my head.

            He lifts the fork off the plate, but hesitates before taking a bite. “Is there a problem between you and Sam?”

            Looking away, I brush lint off my knee. “I don’t have a problem with any of them, Steve.”

            He takes the bite, chews, and washes it down with milk. “She really benefits from talking to you. It’s helping her through her regrets over Sokovia.”

            I snort. “She’ll regret that to her dying day.”

            It sounds so cynical which means he reads into it. “You regret what happened with HYDRA.”

            That’s not what was on my mind, but I’ll go with it. “If I had the chance, I’d undo it.”

            “That’s not the same thing.”

            “Their lives weren’t mine to take and my actions solved nothing. I don’t regret it I just wish I hadn’t done it.” I watch with disappointment as he sets the fork down and clasps his hands. “It’s alright if you don’t understand.”

            “I understand.”

            “You regret the lives you’ve taken as a soldier?”

            His jaw sets. “I’m not confronting you, Ace. We all have our ghosts.”

            Then I have many, many ghosts. They dance in my arteries and swing from my ribs. They whistle and howl and moan in my head, and in my feet they sleep soundly so every step is a chore. “I’m sorry, Steve. I take it back.”

            “It’s okay.” He picks up the fork again and raises an eyebrow as Sam enters the kitchen. I continue watching him eat.

                       

            “Figures you get caught the last time you go. Though I shouldn’t have parked, I suppose.” Clint squats at the base of a fence post as he winches the wire tighter. “How long is the restraining order supposed to last?”

            “He’ll renew it as long he can, I’m sure.” I hold the post straight even though the dirt beneath it is stiff. Matt didn’t used to be the vengeful one.

            “All this over one argument, huh?” Clint bites his lips while tightening the last wire. “What an ass.”

            It was when he heard I’d scattered the ashes without him and threw a hissy fit. I lost my temper in front of witnesses, made some idle threats I should’ve kept to myself, and after that he’d only speak to me through the lawyer I’d met at the hospital. Madge stopped speaking to me entirely.

            “I wasn’t myself. The timing was bad.”

            “Well, you might just be better off. I am sorry you had to put the school in your rearview though.” He stands and jostles the post to see if it budges. “Eh, that’ll last a while.”

            As he packs rocks around the base, I scan the property within the fence. The Barton home sits tidily in the center of the valley, hills rolling down to it from all sides before sprawling like a grateful dog at its feet. Dwindling piles of snow decorate the lawn like lumps of sugar at the bottom of the coffee cup, and one is heaped against the back of the wood pile like two lumpy creatures cuddling for warmth. The back door opens, and Clint’s wife Laura steps out onto the porch with a cooking pot and pours its contents over the railing onto the muddy ground where they grow vegetables in the summer. She looks up, indistinct from this distance, but I see her smile before turning back into the house.

            “Sam says you make a killer apple pie.” Clint brushes his hands off on his jeans. “I wonder who taught you that?”

            I watch the back door. “Does he know about Laura and the kids?”

            “Well,” Clint looks at me with a confused grin, “he knows I’m retired and he knows why.”

            I step on the rocks packed around the post. “I just didn’t make the connection.”

            He’s not a talker, Clint, but he keeps up conversation when I’m around. I know from late nights with Laura that he spent years working Natasha through her issues- a list of regrets that could stagger mine. Yet when he gives me that hopeful smile as we head back down the hill, I don’t have the energy to return it. What will happen anyway? Will he stop caring too?

            When the weekend’s over the Barton kids have school and I have “work." Lila clings to my neck before bedtime, and if I don’t promise to return, she won’t go to bed without a fight. I feel inexplicably unsure of myself whenever she pecks my cheek. Cooper, because he’s thirteen, will let me hug him with one arm while he acts begrudgingly towards me. All boys his age remind me of Vince, so I hug him harder than I mean to.

            Back at the compound, I’m surprised to hear Tony’s voice. I don’t seek him out, but I do hear Steve laugh in response. I dump my laundry in the chute, head across the living area to get back to my room, see Vision standing nearby about to look up, and turn on one heel.

            “Ace.”

            Crud.

            “Just who I was looking for.”

            “Really?” So far I’m the only person he hasn’t imprinted on.

            “Yes, I have a question for you.” He knits his fingers together and glances sideways at the floor. “When you…care, about another person, what things do you do to show them? For instance, Tony says to give them gifts.”

            I scoff lightly at this. “Yes, that’s his way of doing it probably. I think if you care about someone it shows in everything you do for them. Holding a door open, reminding them to stay safe or healthy or happy. All the little things matter more than how many or what kinds of gifts you give them.”

            He bobs his head up and down. “That's reminiscent of what Steven said, though he expressed it differently.”

            He pauses to reflect, and I let him even though I didn’t want to talk in the first place. Vision is experiencing life essentially for the first time, and I don’t mind being patient with him as he learns.

            “What sorts of things did you do for Vincent?”

            Thus my peaceful weekend comes to its crashing end. “Like I said, the little things. Why?”

            “Well, I-” He puts his hands at his sides, “it’s good to have points of reference in these matters. I’d like to know the proper way of showing that someone is important to me. That is the phrase, is it not?”

            No harm meant, no harm done. “I made Vince a cake once. It’s like a gift, but we shared it and he liked it even though it was badly made.” Smile wanly.

            Vision smiles back. “He seemed to appreciate you very much.”

            The good thing about Vision is he doesn’t take it personally if you point out his mistakes. “Vizh, you never met him.”

            “Oh no, I didn’t. JARVIS did.” When I react, he says, “Yes, his memory banks seem to have merged with the rest of the input during my creation.”

            I consciously close my open mouth. “So, what do you remember?”

            “Ah, well, perhaps best is that first day you brought him to the Tower. You were admiring the Chrysler from what I could discern.” He brings a hand to his eyes. “JARVIS, of course, could not see.”

            I bite my tongue. I’d considered myself the only witness to that day. “I’m glad you remember that.”

            “Yes,” he’s encouraged, “then there was a period of time where he lived in your suite. JARVIS became familiar with his habits and comforts, provided him with research material for his school assignments. I believe his projects are still stored in-”

            “Thank you, Vizh.” I put my hand on his, look at it, and withdraw. “Sometimes I worry that I’m the only one who remembers him well.”

            I turn away to try and push past the feeling that my organs have been plucked from me and my bones replaced with rope. Vision doesn’t yet comprehend the endless spectrum of human emotion, so for his sake I always display simple, honest emotions- like using easy phrases with someone just learning your language.

            “I apologize if I've upset you.” He inches closer, lowering his voice in earnest. “It was not my intention.”

            “It’s fine,” I turn back to him, “you’re not at fault. Forgive me.”

            I move to leave, but curiosity makes me reach back and take his hand. He obliges, thinking it the right thing to do, but I only want to feel what he feels. His skin is not flesh, barely alive, and his emotions do not transfer. I drop his hand and walk away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't know if JARVIS' memory got uploaded into Vizh or not. Just felt like adding it in there.


	73. Chapter 73

            Dust spins off the parking lot and into the empty acre surrounding it. In New York an acre of vacant lot might be extraordinary, but here in California it’s the buildings that stand apart from the land. The parking lot, the apartment building it’s attached to, and the warehouse next door are the only developments on this side of the street as far as it extends. A skeletal business park abuts a storage facility across the street, each taking up a luxurious amount of space with room left for a wide alley between. At midday the sun is capable of penetrating the smog, but the sky retains a smeary gray pallor. The wetness of the aqueduct saturates a breeze spiced with smoke from faraway wildfires. Lard and charred meat, a bouquet of scented laundry detergents, melted candle wax, and a scent I can only describe as horse shampoo spill from the vents and windows of the apartment building as mournful mariachi trills from an upper room.

            The warehouse skylights are spray painted black from the outside, and black tarp was taped over the windows from the inside. Aside from a whiff of beer and cheese dust, the overwhelming scent emitted by the warehouse is pot. The front and back doors are bolted, padlocked, barred, and dressed up with ‘No Trespassing’ signs, but the side door has only a standard lock. Normally there would be a guy on the other side with a gun and low moral standards, but today this patsy was lured away by a fake booty call leaving the rows of lush green money undefended- at least, my perception tells me there are rows.

            Three guys stand below me this time, their car parked in the alley across the street, their bolt cutters a frivolous waste as Red kicks in the door. I alternate between watching them and scrolling through their criminal records on my phone. The other two have a handful of priors between them, but there’s practically nothing on Red.   

            The men file into the warehouse, Red blabbering without letup, armed with what appears to be a modest .38 and a blowtorch. Inside they split up, and I walk across the rooftop following Red as he bypasses the plants and heads toward the back. Between the smog and the hothouse beneath me, I’m in a slow cooker glad I didn’t wear my suit. I don’t like letting myself be known on these little side missions. I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for the passel of migrant kids playing in the parking lot. With one ear on the kids and one on the refuse inside, I watch the road for the red Toyota the absent guard drives.

            “Blaze it!”

            I hear the click, _foom_ of the blow torch, taste the slow roast of green plants, and start dialing the nearest fire department. A little girl chases a boy around the parking lot while their playmates tell jokes I don’t understand. Wood scrapes against wood, straw whispers, oil bitters. There’s a weapon cache down there and Red’s getting his fix.

            Thick white smoke curls out of a broken window at the back. I pull my shirt over my nose and teleport to the rooftop of the apartment- I’d rather not get high on the job. The little girl falls down and the others point and laugh. A marbled blue ball rolls away.

            Flat valley, no other obstructions, and the cloud of dust pluming behind the red vehicle make it obvious as it barrels down the road. There’s so much noise inside the warehouse, no lookouts, car parked in the alley across the street when it should have been parked by the back door. Eight kids in the parking lot, two in the side alley, and no one but a teenager within the apartment walls.

            The Toyota has one white door and one black. It peels onto the bulldozed red dirt beside the warehouse, blocking the side door. Shaved head, soul patch, wife beater, shorter than me, jumps out the white door gun-ready. Black door swings open- the mechanism’s damaged so it bounces with a _crack_ \- and taller, thinner, darker lunges out of the driver seat and races around the hood. I lean over the edge of the apartment roof, try to grasp at the ten young minds running barefoot and flip-flopped over the asphalt, and feel the shot go through my bones.

            The back door to the warehouse has been blown flat, padlock thrown to the dirt, and the two ex-cons come out firing. The two kids in the alley run to the parking lot, the eight kids there duck behind a car and the stoop, and I remember where I was last when kids were in jeopardy and I was in charge. My muscles stiffen, but I roar at myself until they move.

            Front door blown down, smoke whooshes out in a hush of stink, and Red struts through adorned with every weapon known to man. His cohorts run down the alley, followed by Black Door and make it across the street just as White Door pulls the truck back around.

            Seven things happen at once.

            The marbled ball rolls under Black Door’s descending foot as he sprints into the parking lot. I see it, Red sees it, the owner of the ball sees it. I jump to the ground- still invisible- when the tall boy runs to the ball, when Red runs to the tall boy. Black Door is sprawled on his face spewing slurs, and raises his gun at whoever’s running at him.

            The boy halts, arms up, and Red jumps in front of the bullet. I grab the boy, turn him around, and push him at the stoop where he ducks beside his friends. White wind blows across the parking lot. I pull my shirt over my nose again, _order_ all ten kids inside, and Black Door tears back to the Toyota that’s honking at him to hurry.

            The white wind clears, the kids are gone, both cars are gone, and a man dressed for the battlefield is bleeding out on the pavement.

            I reappear. “Where you hit?”

            “Wha-” He turns his head, mask hiding even his eyes.

            “Don’t worry, help’s on the way.” A fire truck should be anyhow.

            “Oh. Oh, no, no, no, I’m a mutant. See?” He peels back the black strip of leather the bullet pierced and blood oozes out of heavily scarred flesh. He jolts and looks at it. “Owie. Took a wrong turn. Stop that.”

            I don’t say anything to the fact that he seems to be speaking to the bullet, opting instead to listen for incoming sirens. “Your buddies left without you.”

            “Who, those jackasses? I knew they were going to do that.” Fake laughter. “All…part of the plan. Where’d you come from?”

            I try to meet his eyes, but they’re concealed behind unsettling white lenses. “I watched the whole thing from the roof. I was invisible and teleported down here.”

            “No shit?” He pokes his wound. “Hurry up in there, the po-po are coming. I don’t expect a nice girl like you who called the fuzz in the first place would help me make an awkward and potentially hazardous getaway?”

            “You did just commit arson, steal firearms, endanger the public-”      

            “Hold on, first of all, Arturdo owed me for a job I did him three weeks ago involving an incensed llama, so you can consider the guns debt collection. Second, you think any cop’s going to care that I toasted their crop just before 4/20?” He chuckles. “That’s pretty damn funny- I didn’t even plan it that way. Besides, they don’t have a permit, and I can guaran-damn-tee you they aren’t medical card carriers.”

            “Why did you jump in front of the bullet?”

            “Because it was going to hit the little guy. Hey, where’s his ball by the way, did he get it? There it is.”

            I turn to look at the warehouse- light flickering behind the windows. The marbled ball is nearer the wall than us, so I use telekinesis to roll it over.

            “Hell yeah. That might’ve melted like a big piece of Wrigley’s.” He laughs, picks up the ball, and coughs. “Here comes. That’s what she said.”

            I cringe and look away as the bullet pushes out through the torn leather and into his palm. Disgusting enough when it happens to me.

            “I’m all gross-nasty, can you take this to the door for me?” He holds out the ball. “It’ll suck if he comes back out for it when it smells like a college dorm out here. Developing brain cells and all that.”

            You’ll run off as soon as I turn my back. I take the ball anyway, ascend the stoop, open the door, and roll the ball into an empty hallway. Closing the door behind me, I look across the parking lot and see him waiting for me with his hands on his hips.

            “So?” He cups his hand around his ear. “The trusty laughed is on its way, I hear. Get it? LAFD?”         

            I rub my eyes and sneeze. “Just get out of here, guy.”

            “Deadpool.”

            “What?”

            “You know, like people who might die.”

            Smoke seeps steadily from the front of the warehouse. “Are you part of a death pool or are you actually dead?”

            “Yep.” His mask dents as he smiles.

            Whatever.

            Been out of New York too long because Tony’s back. He left for a couple weeks to that new mansion he likes to talk about but I’ve never seen for lack of trying. Tony only comes back when I do. If I ever want him around, all I have to do is leave first.

            “The prodigal urchin returns.” He waves his fork at me. “Wait, you’re too old to be an urchin now, I gotta stop calling you that.”

            “I was too old when you started.”

            “Is there a legit age range for a street urchin? Hang on,” he tips into the hallway and yells at the communal area, “Steve you used to be a scabby street urchin, what would you say the age range was? He’s pretending he can’t hear me.”

            That makes two of us. I look at the almost finished microwave dinner in his hand. The kitchen gets small and then gets big again.

            “I’m sorry, is this yours?”

            Naturally, if it isn’t yours then it’s someone’s. But this is a man who’s grown up with a stocked fridge in every room, and I just happen to be living on his dime. “I wasn’t going to eat it anyway.”

            “No, no I’ll replace it. Does anything sound bet-”

            “I’m not hungry.” I jerk open the refrigerator door. “Can everyone stop acting like I’m about to keel over?”

            Four. Three. Two. One. “I thought that was physically impossible.”

            Shut the fridge, check to see if he regrets it. He does, but does it matter? He barely remembers you have issues on that score, and he can’t help but make asinine comments at the wrong times causing you to realize he thinks you’re both twenty and not almost fifty and eighty. One of you never grew up and one of you got old too fast. But which one is it?

            My room is a blizzard and I notice this for the first time as I phase through my door which is not as satisfying as slamming it but here we are in this whiteout heading for the large brown armchair that stands out except for the abyssal portal that is the window that is staring at me as I fall into the chair and pull my extremities close so that the blizzard will not swallow me by starting at my fingers and toes.

            When I wake it is apparent that everyone has gone to bed. FRIDAY turned out my lights, and I am staring at the void. It smiles.

            The map room has no windows, minds its manners, and lets me stay as long as I want. I know the chair was all the sleep I’ll get tonight- two hours and twenty-eight hours since the last five hours of stasis. The map room is a 24-hr establishment and no questions asked when you are found there at 4am with the same clothes you had on yesterday. You think you are safe, but these places attract your kind and you can’t help that.

            “Hey, there.” Natasha presses a coil of electrical cord onto the countertop. Snake.

            I keep my feet propped on the counter, sweating fingers stuck between each other, lips feeling no need to part. The lights on the screen stare harder, accentuating seconds where she stands back there- arms crossed, pretending to watch the screen, thinking she can share my silence. She is not Emma.

            “I’m fine.”

            “I know.”

            The lights are reaching out, growing larger. They touch my face with frazzled edges, exuding emotions. Red, constant, smells like blood and running away. Blue, everywhere, is winter sheets on bare skin. Orange, rare, is the spring of citrus on your tongue- sharply sweet, trying painfully to prove its goodness.

            “We miss you out there.”

            But green. It isn’t here right now. It doesn’t touch me. It sounds like the inside of Tupperware.

            “I’m getting a drink. Bring you anything?”

            Shake my head, lips on strike.

            “Let me know.”

            The scentless mellow of her antiperspirant, the lavender of her shampoo, the silky slide of muscle simply as she leaves a room. It takes a stronger woman than me to fight like that while wearing heels. I can’t stand the things.

            Red means flight. Blue means vulnerability. Orange means effort. Green means nothing.

            The conundrum in red leather is as productive as FRIDAY implied. He doesn’t restrict himself to California, but only crosses the Mississippi once for a job in Louisiana.

            The clean, quick blasts of a .9m are muffled in their shotgun house on this muggy street. Nothing changes outside except the one-eyed Rottweiler gives a little growl, unsure what strikes her as amiss. Finger to my lips, I look over my invisible shoulder. _“Shh.”_

            She huffs and her baggy teats sway away.

            Grits are boiling over in the shotgun house wherefrom the bullets flew. Cock my head and observe the footsteps stepping casually around bodies and furniture. I didn’t get here too late, just didn’t want to get involved. Grits weren’t the only thing cooked in that house.

            Red exits from the back, takes the steps in one merry leap, lands in mud, laughs. No one confronts him, stops him, or even budges their curtains to get a good look at him. My turn.

            Cover my nose with a dense surgical mask improved by a dot of cologne on the inside. Up the powder blue steps- particle board bulging with rot. Chinks in the walls show blackened insulation. Don’t open the door or the windows. Turn off the gas that holds the flame that sputters and spits under the onslaught of runny grits sticking to the sides of a dented aluminum pan. Avoid looking at the dead men in the living room. Deadpool is a hitman.

            Now I may leave the back door open- screen door closed. Was the house supposed to burn down? For payment? For fun? Follow Deadpool down the footpath that runs between backyards. Note cornrows standing in their yard like two fawns. One holds a steel bat, the other a neon water gun; both wear basketball jerseys. Deadpool waves, shouts, “I loved you in _Space Jam_ ,” and keeps strutting, gun in hand. Reckless. He wouldn’t blow up a crack house with kids so close by.

            Wait until he gets in the little truck provided by his “friend” at the airport, and appear in the passenger seat. “You know you left the stove on.”

            The truck swerves wildly- up onto the curb, narrowly missing a rusted fire hydrant- but stops before rolling. _“How the beignet did you get in here?”_

            “Propane stove, lit, and all the doors and windows closed. The place would burn down or explode as soon as someone opened a door, and kids not sixty feet away.”

            “What the hell are you doing in my car? Did you follow me here? Who the hell _are you?”_

            The walls were so soggy and chinked it’s likely the flame have gone out on its own. “The stove’s off now, you ass. You’re welcome.”

            The mask looks at me, at the road, at me, at the road. I roll down a window and pull the surgical mask off for a little fresh air.

            “Is someone paying you to follow me? Are you filming me? Is this a reality show- Am I on _Candid Camera?”_

            I roll the window back up. “Can’t believe you recognized me in this.”

            “Did you call the fuzz on me again?  Because I’m not afraid to shove a lady out of a moving car if you did. Did you? Fess.”

            “This was different; they’ll get here as late as they always do. Are you going to drive? I can get out now.”

            “No, no, _Vanilla Sky_ , you stay. I don’t need you standing around talking to cops when I’m on a job.” He puts the car in reverse, straightens her out, and continues down the road. “Again, who do you work for, and why are you following me?”

            “Do you do this for the money or the high?”

            He laughs and slaps the dashboard. “You’re so funny. _Money._  Like ABBA, but their pants are tighter. Damn it, I should get some ABBA pants while I’m down here. Mardi Gras, right? They’d have ABBA pants.”

            I glance down his legs- tall man, but not big, not muscled. Maybe he’s a good fighter, but more likely his draw is worse than his punch. “Flare cut would look good on you.”

            “That’s what I keep telling people.” He slams the dashboard some more. Then he stares at me.

            “Eyes on the road.”

            “You’re much better looking than the road.”

            “Please don’t. So, not gay?”

            “I don’t like to exclude. You?”

            “Are you driving all the way to the airport or stopping for another gordita?” I kick a Taco Bell wrapper and check the time. “Pull over.”

            Reluctant sigh as he twirls the steering wheel. “You act like you’ve got somewhere to be when we know you just want-”

            “If I wanted to follow you I wouldn’t be in your car. I’d be following you.” I open the door to a puddle that looks like it’s about a foot deep. Slide him a look. His hand flaps off the wheel and back.

            “Taco Bell or puddle. Your choice.”

 

            Dry hands. Have I gone that far? No, they’re Wanda’s- she took the rings off.

            She notes the smell. I walked through that crack house, through propane and burnt grits, and didn’t jump straight to a shower. I don’t usually because no one here has my sense of smell, but Wanda recognizes the odor.

            “I didn’t know there was a right way to make this,” she angles her hand Martha Stewart like at a cookbook. “My mama used the same three ingredients every time, when there are eight ingredients and seven ways to make it.”

            Lean across the island, read the book upside down. “Apple-less apple pie.”

            She quirks her lip. “Of course the American equivalent involves apple pie.”

            I press my chin into my hand. “Mash crackers into water, add nutmeg, cinnamon, sugar. Put the crust on. Bake. Apple-less apple pie. Civil war recipe, so I read.”

            Hands wipe over each other, sleeves rolled up, before delving into the bowl beside the cookbook. Crumbs of butter flattened between thumbs. “Your mama teach you to cook?”

            I close my eyes and recall the first thing I learned how to prepare. Tea. On another planet. Brew whose name belongs to no Earth language, especially not one Wanda knows.

            _“_ _Не так много поваром , ваша мама?_ _”_ She presses the dough into a ball, smoothes it with the inside of the bowl. “I like this job. Plenty of time to live.”

            Between her and Natasha my Russian is flawless and I can amateur my way through Eastern Europe. Of the others, Steve offers French and German, Rhodey and Sam dose spoonfuls of Farsi, Vizh speaks anything textbook and tinged with that English public school accent. Tony never says anything useful these days, and the foreign aides avoid me.

            I’m still in the kitchen after Wanda’s baked and served whatever that bread was. She must’ve been impatient for me to leave, but I didn’t catch on until now when she’s gone to her room. The bread sits at the other end of the island, away from me. The fridge hums, the fluorescent lights buzz, our floor otherwise silent.

            There’s a shock of energy when I rip the cabinet off the wall. In slow motion, glasses and plates slide out the swinging cabinet doors, careen through the air, and rush the island and the tile floor. Sheetrock and bolts shiver loose, decorating it all with a crumbly coat of dust. The tremendous din rings brightly.

            Vision and Rhodes are the first on the scene, but I don’t hide the self-satisfied smile on my face.

            “What the hell happened?” Rhodes demands.

            Looking at him- boring, dull- I feel the relief of my expression fade.

            “Ace?” Rhodes bobs his head forward as if I didn’t hear him the first time.

            Vision can take stock of the situation, even though he doesn’t understand, even though he’s an accident who doesn’t even know if he should exist. I don’t linger to hear his tedious queries or summations. Wanda won’t like the glass in her bread.

            I don’t return to my room- constraining, suffocating. I might disassemble the armchair or rip my clothes from their hangers. Flip the bed over, break the window, rend the shelves from the wall and watch all those pages flutter. With my strong imagination, the satisfaction is gone as soon as the fantasy has ended. I divert from my room and head downstairs.


	74. Chapter 74

            For weeks I’d wake up in the pre-dawn hour paralyzed by dread Once, the dream swam about my partial consciousness rambling like a forgotten guest. Vince and I were at the fair passing through the midway, and he was saying things that made less and less sense the more aware I became. Confused, I asked why he wasn’t dead, and my own voice woke me up.

            “Are you mad at me?”

            Pause to reflect. “I’m not mad.”

            Tony wants to, but doesn’t believe me. I don’t believe myself. I don’t feel angry, or that whatever this is could be directed at him. It’s a non-feeling. I suppose the correct answer would be: “I’ve just chosen not to think or feel about you at all. When you speak to me, I’m vaguely reminded of your existence, as though someone were tapping on very thick glass. That doesn’t mean I don’t still care about you, but I just don’t think I love you anymore.”

            The debris swept up, the dishes replaced, the man standing next to me hands in pockets already planning how to reimburse whatever it was he thinks he did to cause this. Always sending flowers, jewelry, presents, tickets, without knowing why someone’s mad at him. Doesn’t want to know, won’t understand anyway, so here don’t be mad and wear this lovely Valentino I got you. Be anything but mad.

            Hands still in pockets, he swivels to the workmen reinstalling cabinets. His eyebrows rise at the bridge of his nose like a sorrowful dog. “You’re mad at somebody.”

            Statement. Analyze it for weaknesses, faults, and loose ends. Preexisting conclusion remains: I am not mad. Statement invalid and therefore capable of being ignored.

            “Visiting Green Acres soon?”

            I shift my crossed arms. “It’s only that if you’re there, Zsa Zsa.”          

            Taps both feet and sucks in his cheeks. The comeback never comes.

           

            Some poser in black strolls up the sidewalk toward me- gold foil numeral plastered to his chest, cigarette hanging off his lip like a polyp, pants sagging, cussing to his phone- and helpless love washes over me. Vince’s deodorant. Never realized it was sold in every bodega in Queens.

            Catherine Figueroa backs out her front door, locks it, and rotates like Jupiter to plod down her front stoop- floral print muumuu jouncing with each step. I wait for her to look up so I might catch a glimpse- among the wrinkles and chins- of the son she bore.

            His ears.

            His lips.

            The way she holds her head up like she can take all shit. Harder look than his. More shit I suppose.

            On the other coast, Deadpool wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and swallows. “Like I said, I take any job. Any. Almost any. And this idiot with a bag of money asks me to kill his ex-wife because he’s tired of paying alimony and she took dear and fluffy Fifi.”

            He hands me the brown paper bag of tortilla chips, glossy at the bottom. I take it, take the salsa cups from the dashboard, move the gun out of the cupholder, and set it in my lap. Salsa goes in one cup holder, Tecate in the other.

            “Hey, lady, don’t use those for what they’re meant for, okay? That’s a gun holder, now return the Boberg.”

            Ignoring him, I move the gun to the glove compartment and find a massive knife. “Is that sterile?”

            He gazes at it, chewing thoughtfully. I close the glove compartment, opting not to cut my football-sized burrito in half.  

            “Anyway, I tell the guy to beat it; I don’t kill people for getting away from crappy husbands.” He drinks some beer, takes a bite of burrito, and I don’t stare at his half-exposed face. White guy, mottled with pinkish burn scars and something worse beneath those.

            “Besides, he was going cheap. I need funny money- money I can wipe my butt with, you know? Fill a bouncy house shaped like the Eiffel Tower and jump till the cows come home. Preferably with six Playboy bunnies and a gallon of Chunky Monkey.”            

            I manage not to laugh at the imagery for all but two seconds when I snort into my burrito. I’ve lost this round. “Why the Eiffel Tower?”

            “Because they don’t make ones shaped like giant red maple leaves. The first bounce house I ever entered was when I was nineteen, and they made me get out. Nineteen and I’d never been in a bounce house; what a crapfest. When was your first time?”

            Time to earn back points. “I was born in a bounce house. It was shaped like a corn cob and the missing kernels were the windows.”

            He does not laugh because he is much better at this game than I am. “They can let a pregnant woman jiggle around in one of those things, but a teenage boy with a pocketknife is over the line. Unbelievable.”

            Laughing again. “Damn, I suck at this.”

            “You’re okay.” He sticks his gloved hand into the bag of chips and rattles it around. “You came up with a more phallic bounce house than I did, so you still win.”

            I smack the chip bag.

            “Hey, hey, don’t break my food.” He jabs me in the shoulder.

            Handing him the detonator, I nod at the stack of crates piled up in the middle of the junkyard. “Are you going to do it or what?”

            “For realsies?” He takes it from me. “I thought I’d have to wait until you left.”

            “How dare you.”

            One massive bite of burrito, tortilla like taut elastic, filling falling out and onto my jacket, salsa juice dribbling around the base of each thumb. Boards launch in all directions along with glossy sheets of paper. He cracks up like a villain in an old cartoon, but I don’t watch the explosion, I watch him.

            “Why are you never home?”

            “Says the OC who’s always stalking me.”

            suck salsa off my hands. “I don’t believe you get paid for blowing up a shipping container filled with Playboy magazines.”

            “It’s Newsweek. It’s like the C-SPAN of magazines.” His frown is grotesque. “My place has been lonely ever since my girlfriend died. I have a roommate, but he’s such a nerd; he never wants to do anything fun.”

            He starts relating some stupid thing this roommate did. I watch the flames lean sideways in the wind- fluttering, agitated. During a lull they relax then impulsively jump upward before the wind circles around and drives them sideways again.  

            “Now’s the part where you tell me all about your crappy life.”

            I swallow to clear my throat. “My life’s lovely. I have everything I need, no one’s giving me any problems. I love life.”

            Awkward silence. “Well, that was depressing.”

            The game’s gotten tiring. “How’d she die?”

            “Right place, wrong time. Stabbed by an angry sack of dicks.”

            My stomach drops to my intestines and I sit up straight with a shallow breath. “God, I’m sorry.”

            “You didn’t stab her. I already took care of the guy who did.”

            The flames are dying down again. “Were you doing this before she died? Your job?”

            “It’s how I met her. We went waaay back.”

            My appetite’s gone, but my stomach still growls. Hostage situation. “I don’t know which one shot my husband. Too late to find out now.”

            “Aw, that’s not true. I bet I can find out.”

            “No, I mean they’re dead. Thanks, but…I’m moving out and I need a place to crash. The less demanding the better.”

            “Is a crack den too far? You don’t look like you’re ready for that; no offense.” He bites into the burrito again and through the mouthful asks, “You want to stay at my place?”    

            Not as much as I want to get away from my place.

            “Cuz,” beans and rice swishing around, “my place is like a crack den, but there are less sleeping bags and more broken furniture. No promises on the crack either. Or squatters. Or crying babies. Or anything you’ve seen on _Cops_ -”

            “I get it, it’s a dump.”

            “Hey. Feelings.”

            I wrap up my burrito. “Sorry for ruining the fun.”

            “Okay, I lied I don’t have a nerdy roommate- that guy ‘has his own place.’ You can have your own room, fill it with snacks, no pet over 203 lbs- if you get a baby elephant we’re naming him Beethoven, non-negotiable. Plus, my neighbors don’t complain about the noise anymore after I set that car on fire- complete misunderstanding, the car wasn’t even in park.”

            A dump he’s never in, shenanigans occurring often, no one asking how I’m doing or expecting anything of me. Practical anarchy. “How soon can I move in?”

            “Whenever. Right now. Next week. Just be careful about the crazy old bird who lives in the kitchen, she’ll try to convert you to Scientology. I try to put her away when company’s over- she brings shame upon the family name- but if you’re going to be living there now you may as well know about the skeletons in the closet. Don’t worry, I’ll clean out the ones in your room…so maybe don’t move in tonight.”

            It’s going to take a while before I can tell his serious from his silly. I smile, but don’t laugh. “That’s fine. I’ve got some skeletons to bury too.”

 

            I’m shuffling through the stack of magazines under the coffee table to see if any are mine. I don’t intend on taking all my worldly possessions to the mercenary’s hovel, but I’d like to limit what gets left behind. I go still when I hear someone coming. Tony again.

            "I don't see enough of you these days.” He walks over to the table, mug in hand. "Tidying up?"

            I shove the magazines back. "Just crap lying around that I don't need."

            Shouldn’t look up, but I do, just to face it. He's looking right at me with that analytical expression, seeing things I’d rather he didn’t.

            "I’m taking off for a while.” I stand and make to leave. “Don't know when I'll be back."

            He nods and winks, eager to cover up any awkwardness. "Sabbatical. Feel free to crash at the Alaskan retreat- seems more your style. The Dubai house is free of course, but it's kinda flamboyant for your taste."

            I don't need your houses. “I think I’ll just rent a cabin or something."

            Mustache wriggles when he bites his lip. "You sure you don't want someone to go with you?"

            I puzzle for a second. Bruce told him about Bella Coola. I roll my eyes and walk away.

            "I just don't want- You shouldn’t go alone.”

            I look back at him standing on the other side of the table now, mug abandoned, eyes shining. God, he's got more wrinkles than he had last year. The hair dye always misses a handful of white hairs, especially on his chin. When he's open with me, when he's not drunk, I'm reminded why I keep coming back.

            Swamp water rises into my throat, and I take a step toward him.

            Ultron. Sokovia. Wanda’s brother. Bruce.  

            The swamp water boils then evaporates through my nostrils. I stop in my tracks. I’m no better off than the kid he left in Tennessee.

            "If I’m not back in a month, don’t worry about it.”

 

            Eyes to the ground, I memorize the mineral makeup of the dirt as I follow Clint to the barn. I don’t want to think of this as my last visit, but I’m collecting every memory I can and storing them away.

            “Thanks again for doing this.” Clint presses on the barn door and it opens with well-oiled ease. “Because we don’t keep a lot of company there’s never anyone to watch the kids. Nathan gets fussy on trips, and it’s cutting into our time with the other two. He can be a handful.”

            I wait until we’re inside the barn to pinch his flannel sleeve. “Hey, I’m taking off. From New York, I mean.”

            The forehead wrinkles form immediately. “What? To where?”

            “California. Don’t tell Tony. Okay? Don’t tell anyone.”

            “Why not Tony?” The forehead wrinkles grow stern. “Why are you leaving?”

            I focus on a trail of ants marching past my toes. “I can’t stand the compound anymore. Don’t ask me why.”

            He doesn’t, but retains that dismayed expression. “I offered to let you move out here and that offer still stands. We have plenty of-”

            “Clint, every time I’m here I drag depression all through your house. I’m a dead weight, and you know that. You’ve already got three babies, and I’m just someone’s dying pet.”

            “Would you stop saying shit like that? Jesus, stop acting like you burden everyone.”

            I move the tip of my boot into the path of the ants. They panic, confused, wondering where their scent trail went, wondering how they’ll get home and if the other ants know how to find them.  

            “How long have you been planning this?”

            “Since yesterday.”

            Clint wipes his hand over his face. “In twenty-four hours you decide to pack up everything and not tell anyone but me? That’s not drastic or unhealthy. Please, just stay here.”

            “Why unhealthy?”

            “You know why, knock it off. You can’t run away by yourself, you need people.”

            “No, I don’t.” Reanalyze. “I need you.”

            “Yeah,” he lets out a choked laugh, “yeah, you need me to cover for you. Look, if it’s about the job, you can call Steve from here; you don’t need to go all the way to California. If it’s about the other thing…Ace, just stay here.”

            “Look, I told you where I’m going to be- I don’t trust anyone else with that.” I keep his focus. “And I won’t be alone, I have a contact there who’s giving me a place to stay.” I take out a piece of paper. “I got a new phone, new number, but I won’t answer if it’s not you.”

            “Okay, just.” He grips my hand and the piece of paper. “I was afraid you were going deep cover on me.”

            _“Dad,”_ shouts Cooper from the house. I hear him jump the stairs and run toward the barn. “Mom says time to go.”

            “Be there in a sec.” Clint grabs what he came for, and we step back out so he can lock up. “Give Ace a hug, she needs one.”

            Cooper’s as tall as I am now. Voice will get deep, face will thin out, and he’ll have to start shaving. He’ll become more interested in girls, a career, and life outside this place. He’ll become harder to manage, harder to protect. Clint will have to watch them each leave, and his new hobby will be worry.

            I keep the hug as short as he wants it, but still make sure to squeeze. “You’re a smart guy, Coop. Go have fun.”

            He ducks his head, too shy to think of something to say in reply, and looks to his dad from under his eyebrows.

            “Okay,” Clint pats me on the back, “we’ll talk more later. Don’t let Nate wear you out.”

 

            Nathan Pietro Barton is doggedly attempting to eat his own fist.

            “I’m no expert, but I think you’re going to need that later on.” I’m sitting cross-legged before him on the blanket, hands in my lap. I haven’t moved a muscle in many minutes and my body feels comfortably numb. “Aren’t you a little old to still be chewing body parts?”

            He looks up at me, spitty cheeks, pink caterpillar of an arm disappearing into his gob.

            “That’s right, I’m saying stuff.” The breeze blows a strand of hair across my face. “Spoiled, that’s what you are.”

            What teeth he has leave smooth, painless semi-circles on his wrist.

            “You’ve got a big brother and a big sister. They will pick on you eventually, but they’re alright. You’ve got a momma who loves you, a poppa who’ll fight for you, and you live in a big house in the country.”

            I press my finger to his nose, flattening the soft tip, and hold it there as long as he lets me. By three Mississippi he turns his head and looks at the woods, pausing mastication before thoughtfully resuming.

            “Everybody you meet loves you. You are the center of the world. You are literally the most important person in existence.”

            I kiss the soft top of his head, dusted with fine blond silk. Sighing through my nose, I look where he’s looking, at the woods lovely, dark, and deep. “What if it was just us, Nate? What if we were the last people on Earth?”

            He wobbles slightly as he tilts his big head to look up. I brush my thumb over his forehead. All of him is soft. Carefully, I pluck his fist from his mouth and give him the cuff of my shirtsleeve instead- folded over so he can’t get to the button. He still finds the button.

            “Just don’t choke on it okay? I don’t know how to get that back out of you once it’s in there, I don’t know babies. I know aliens, I don’t know babies. I know killer robots, I don’t know babies. Don’t look at me like that; it’s my shirt you’re eating.”

            Bored, he moves my hand out of his way, puts both hands on the blanket and lifts himself up. I put my hand in front of his belly, so when he falls after two steps I catch him. He is returned to his spot on the blanket. I lie down beside him, dizzy under the sky, and prop my arm against his be-diapered backside. The breeze is coming on strong.

            “Save me, little man. You’re all I got left.”


	75. Chapter 75

            The street sign is missing, but the adult superstore is right where he said it’d be. A chop shop, a seedy thrift, and the armed _paleta_ peddler all give the neighborhood the ambience I expected.

            Deadpool owns a three story architectural accident with a fenced-in roof, mismatched windows, and one floor jutting out over the alley. Maybe it was originally owned by Frank Gehry, or maybe there was an earthquake and this was its facelift. Vince would describe it as “having personality” and use that term he learned; _wabi-sabi._ I’ll have to take a picture to show him-

            When my breath returns, I press on.

            By the back door leans an overflowing and much abused trash can that I must brush against when throwing my shoulder into the stuck door. It opens with sudden force, and I step loudly onto yellowed linoleum. An old woman stands guard at the stovetop not four feet to my left, hunched over a badly scrambled egg popping in canola oil.

            “Are you Al?” I was expecting a man.

            She doesn’t move from her post, but raises her warped plastic spatula as if predicting a passing fly. “Who’s asking?”

            “Ace.”

            She huffs. “I thought you’d be a man.”

            I tilt my head to get a better look at her face. Glasses are black, not prescription. Blind.

            “Wade says you’re taking the top floor, says you’re ‘chaotic good’ or some shit. That supposed to be some kind of new gender?”

            Wade. “He told me to be wary of the crazy old bird who lives in his kitchen.”

            She huffs again. “He was up there all night moving stuff. Couldn’t get any sleep. That idiot never stops moving.”

            She does not indicate further need for conversation. The egg on the stove is browning at the edges, but the spatula stays raised. I can see the stairs from where I am, so I leave her to her experiment.

            Room’s cleaner, larger, and better lit than I expected. Dust has been swept into corners, and the edges of the window panes are grimy. There’s a brand new bed- IKEA- with a brand new mattress- Sleeptrain- and patterned white curtains framing the windows- old Ninja Turtles bed sheets. A cockroach lingers on the windowsill, antennae moving curiously as it admires the view of the rooftop next door where a pink, plastic clothes hanger rests unquestioned on the gravel tar. Most importantly, this street is very quiet. Granted, it’s only 2pm on a weekday, but for the moment it’s a comforting vacuum. Setting my bag on the foot of the mattress, I tuck my hands under my head and lie down.

            The smell of paraffin and corn syrup wakes me.

            “Happy moving day!” Wade’s standing before the bed touting a small frosted cake with an orange-striped candle.

            I sit up rubbing sleep out of my eyes, and the cake is thrust into my lap.

            “Weas forgot the milk and the pizza and the forks and the beer, so all you’re getting is cake. May contain soy.”

            My bemused gratitude is postponed by what sounds like two dump trucks fighting for dominance.

            “No, no, the Sinatra,” Wade yells at the floor. He looks back at me. “You like the room?”  

            I hold the cake carefully, cautious of the flame. “Why do you wear your mask at home?”

            The dump trucks go for round two, and Wade stomps on the floor, swears loudly, and leaves the room. I look at the cake in my lap.

            When the heavy metal quiets down again I hear Wade verbally abusing the stereo operator, while Al sips something in the kitchen. Heading downstairs with the cake, I listen for further signs of an argument when lo and behold Frank Sinatra does start playing- though in Michael Buble’s voice. The cheerfully sarcastic mutterings are coming from the “den” which is adjacent to the kitchen and behind the stairs. A wall was torn out to connect the two rooms, and a solitary wooden beam separates them. I set the cake on the kitchen table beneath a solitary bare bulb, and Al cocks her head.

            “You must be really cute. He never gets me anything.”

            I’m beginning to like Al. “Do you like chocolate?”

            “Too heavy.”

            “Because this is some kind of sprinkle-infested mess with a bite taken out of it. Looks white to me.”

            “Don’t they all.” She puts down her soup spoon and gestures in my direction. “Get me a plate.”

            A brief search of the cupboards results in one clean candy dish and a gently used paper plate with grease spots. Wade comes in, sees the cake being divvied, and pulls up a chair.

            “You already had a bite.” I blow out the candle.

            “Pardon _moi_ , but a bite is not a slice.”

            “It is when the cake’s this tiny.” I push a quarter of cake onto Al’s plate when a thin, thirty-something kind of guy enters from the den rubbing his hands on his hoodie.

            “Cake?”

            “Oh, hey. Uh, yeah. Hi.” He holds out his hand and crooks a confused brow above his glasses. “I’m, uh, yeah. You’re a girl.”

            “Nice introduction, Mr. DJ, we can all see she’s a girl- no offense, Al.” Wade raises his arm to the guy. “This gift to humanity is Weasel. Say hello- like a normal person not an embarrassing nub- to Ace, Weasel.”

            “Hello- I just did, I already did.” His hands don’t stay in one place when he’s flustered.

            “Don’t worry about it. Here.” I hand him the candy dish with a quarter of cake. “If you know where the forks are, be my guest.”

            “Yeah, you feel pretty stupid now for not getting the milk, huh, Geller?”

            “You didn’t pay me last week, what was I supposed to buy it with?” Weasel tugs open a drawer, frowns, and gingerly picks out a salad fork. “You want me to buy your groceries, you need to put up.”

            “What was that about putting up?” Wade leans forward threateningly. “No, no say it again, toothpick.”

            “Wade,” I raise my voice slightly and slide the tray toward him, “shut up and eat your cake.”

            I cross my arms and lean back as the three of them enjoy the saddest bit of chemically concocted confection on the planet.

 

            The next morning I get some shopping done, appearing as a different person in each store. When I return at lunch, it’s to the top floor, and no one knows I’ve been gone. I dress the bare mattress with new sheets, and empty the Fry’s bag onto it. I charge the devices I bought with the dubious electrical outlet on the other side of the room. A router dangles from a cord duct-taped to the wooden beam downstairs, and Weasel gave me the password last night, so there is at least that reassurance. An hour into setup, a filthy moaning comes from downstairs.

            “You couldn’t have watched that while I was out?” I ask aloud.

            Muting the porno, I go back to work. Al mutters something derogatory about the woman in the film, and Wade proceeds to describe the action to her in detail. I abandon the laptop and take the tablet to the roof.

            It’s an uncomfortably warm day for May, though Vince would say it’s normal for the west coast. There’s no shade on the roof at noon, but I drag a protesting metal lawn chair over to the only silver of shadow behind the stairwell and plunk down in a premature sweat.

            The wifi signal is weaker up here, but so is my anytime ability to hear the disgusting things downstairs. The tablet takes less time to prepare than the laptop, but the porno must be an opera for the time it’s taking to end. I put the tablet under the chair and sink into the springs.

            The city starts to talk.

            First in one ear then in the other. It says it’s wide and flat, there’s no high rise forest in the way, sound can travel freely; over rooftops, over fences, between streetlights and into parking lots where a ringtone swills and the deep bass of subwoofers throb. Spanish, on every corner, mixed with rap and something else. To the west, not close enough to smell, but close enough to know, this planet’s largest ocean laps at the land that dared get in its way. It could swallow the city, swallow the state, swallow the country, and finally reach across to give the Atlantic a good punch. That’s for being cold and distant, and pretending you’re better than me. Just because the greatest cities in the world belong to you, doesn’t mean I couldn’t swallow you too.

            The snap of static downstairs tells me the television’s been turned off. I wait another minute, the shade only just covering my head now, and listen to see if the city says anything else. An ice cream truck jangles by.

 

            Sunlight slants through the tops of the ratty curtains in the kitchen as Wade cleans his guns on a Disney Princess placemat I found under the sink. I felt the kitchen table could endure the suffering a little better if it had protection, but implements of violence spill over the dirty surface nonetheless.

            “You know your hit choked to death on a gluten-free kale muffin this morning, right?”

            Wade looks up from his work. “Was it organic?”

            “Couldn’t say, but there was an ambulance outside his house and they carted him out without a respirator.”   

            He rolls his head back and waves the knife at me. “Wait a second, is he even gluten intolerant? Hey, what were you doing at his house?”

            “What were you paid to kill him?”

            “Thirty grand. He’s a minor mobster.”

            “A minor lobster.”

            “He held the salty underworld in his claws-” He pauses mid-pun, the sightless eyes of his mask watching me. “You just didn’t want me to kill him.”

            “You don’t believe me?”

            “I barely know you.”

            I grin. “They why’d you let me move in?”

            He looks back at his work. “Cuz. You’re hot and I make bad decisions.”          

            “Hey, your client wanted him dead, he’s dead, and you killed him. A thirty-thousand dollar kale muffin in the right place at the right time.”

            “If it was gluten-free, organic, vegan, and artisanal it cost at least half that much and could choke a whale. That’s why I stick with the native palate.”

            I pick a random clip out of a stack on the table. “How much do you owe Weasel and for what?”

            “He does all the computer crap- hacking phones, collecting bitcoins- but mostly he plays WoW and watches Hulu. I keep telling him to download one of those programs that does all the hacking for me so I can fire him, but he still hasn’t done it.”       

            “Right, I’ve heard about those programs.” I say in all seriousness. “But in the meantime you do owe him money. Do you keep said money in your mattress or in a bank account?”

            “Uh-huh. I don’t trust banks, they get robbed too much, and nuns creep me out. Not as much as Ben Affleck creeps me out, but Ghostface nuns make me wet my pants.”

            My brain shuffles through every pop culture reference I know, but I don’t consume enough media to keep up with this guy. Meanwhile, in this blank space where I’m deciphering his code, Wade just keeps going. “Blake Lively was hot though- I’m practically married to her so she must be, am I right? I always did like her better than Leighton Meester-“

            “So you pay for everything in cash.” And your finances are handled by your limp grasp on reality. “Do you have another job lined up after this one?”

            “Yeah, I’m breaking some idiot out of the slammer for a couple thousand.”

            “Prison? Why so little?”

            “No, not prison, jail- is slammer only for prison? That can’t be right. I kinda got him arrested and keep forgetting to go get him. He’s a tough nugget to dip, but we’re cool, he loves me, we’re friends.”

            More intrigued by this caper than his others, I venture into his mind just to glimpse who he’s referring to, and immediately jump out again. Nothing in there am I prepared for. “You are the single weirdest person I have ever met.”

            “Thank you,” he says with the sweetest sincerity of feeling. “I’d say the same for you, but unfortunately it would be a lie. There are many clowns in my part of town, and I know all their names and their mamas’ games. There are splinters in the windmills of their minds.”

            When Weasel arrives with a bag of Wienerschnitzel and a Big Gulp, I tuck a check into his shirt pocket and smile. “Cash it quick, the account’s temporary.”

            He’s a little stunned- by the check or the fact that a woman just touched him, I’m not sure- and I leave before he regains the ability to speak. Al is seated in her recliner, headphones on, already enjoying her gift.

            “Can you hear me, Al?”

            No acknowledgment.

            “Because if you can hear me, you can hear Wade.”

            There’s a delay before she retrieves the tablet from between the cushions. “This is some bullshit, who wrote this?”

            Good. Now I tackle the big issue. In the “den” at the front of the building come the sounds of slaughter and automatic weapons. I lean against the support beam and watch a zombie be gruesomely split in two.

            “Wade. Wade. Wade.”

            _“I’m playing Xbox.”_ He thumbs furiously at the controls.

            “Stop now or never watch porn in this house again.”

            He roars at the screen and leans forward in an armchair so tattered and gouged it should rightly be put out of its misery.

            “Then we’re in agreement.”

            “Hell yeah!”

            As I head for the stairs, the recliner creaks.

            “I heard that.”

            I adjust Al’s pillow. “You’re welcome.”

            She chuckles and returns to her audiobook.    

 

            Wade’s gone today with no explanation as to where he went. Al just huffed when I asked if he said where he was going. When I asked if Weasel came by during the day, she got quiet.

            “He doesn’t come around when Wade’s not at home.” Then she lifted her head and faced me. “And don’t you be inviting no one around without asking first. Believe me.”

            I went back up to the roof, listened, walked to the edges, listened, and then stared at the streaky white sky for three minutes. Not a bird flew over, not an inch of smog moved.

            Then my cell phone rang.

            “You keeping up with the news lately?” Clint sounds a little harried.

            My last interaction with the outside world was seeing the cover of Soap Digest on the bathroom floor. “What did Tony do this time?”

            “Put Wanda under house arrest, got Steve and Sam arrested, and sold out to the Accords. You follow all that?”

            I roll my head and yawn.

            “You haven’t been paying attention at all. Fine, someone’s about to unleash a team of enhanced Soviet assassins on the world, and Steve doesn’t have a team to stop them. I’ve got Wanda, and we’re on our way to California to pick up someone else. We were really hoping you could join us.”

            I rub my palm into the worn chair arm. “I thought you were done with this.”

            “I was, but Wanda needed to be sprung and Cap had no one else to call. Can’t just leave him hanging.”

            No one else to call. “So Steve and Tony are having a disagreement while a global threat looms large. I’ve barely been gone a month.”

            “Right? How do you think I felt?”

            “Why doesn’t Steve have a full team?”

            Creaky, sardonic laugh. “You want the short story? Tony doesn’t believe in this assassin plot, thinks Steve’s making it up. Rhodes, Vision, and Nat- can you believe it?- back him up. They’ve literally got the United Nations after Cap for trying to put this situation down before it starts.”

            Part of me is frantic for not knowing what the hell is going on out there; the rest of me is relieved. “If the team’s split in half it’s better I stay where I am.”

            This is met by the white noise of a car in motion. I imagine Wanda in the passenger seat, staring at the phone in his hand, wondering for the billionth time how her life has gotten to this point.

            “You’d be the deciding vote, you know.”

            Responsibility presses down on me. “Be safe, Clint.”

            The disappointment weighs equally in his voice. “I’ll try. Take care of yourself.”

            We hang up, and I hold the phone away from me. It doesn’t ring again.

            What now?

            The warm strain of anger under my skin, igniting every section of me into furious exhaustion. Anger takes effort, effort hurts.

            Let it go. You used to be good at that. Start with a deep breath.

            Cold air streams into lungs.

            And let out the anger. Keep breathing shallower and shallower until all the anger is outside. Five incrementally smaller breaths until my insides are cool again, and I feel light and refreshed. Who am I talking to right now? Is this peace?

            I smile a little, and it feels good so…I smile a little bigger. Feels better, so I smile better and my face is refreshed too. Then it takes effort so I stop. Only do something as long as the good feeling lasts. Don’t force a good thing.

            I flip open the phone and hit End. The logo crawls politely across the screen, thanking me for leaving it on as long as I have. The screen goes black.

            I am adrift.


	76. Chapter 76

            I forget about the phone call for a week. Every morning at the crack of dawn, I go for a run to refresh my brain and my body. The neighborhood is ugly, broken, and bruised with traffic at all hours of the day. I am a pale, unattractive woman on some streets, Hispanic on others, and a black woman on still others. When one disguise attracts attention, I trade it for another until I find a persona that everyone can ignore. This is how five square miles become mine

            On Tuesday, I jog back into the house, and am nearly struck down by wet dog smell. The same mutant-hybrid Wade was battling in an intersection two months ago is seated on the couch in the living room wearing orange pajamas over his hirsute bulk. He looks me up and down with detached interest then looks away.

            _Small ones,_ he thinks.

            I look at the ceiling lamp above him, hanging hazardously by an exposed wire, and let it drop. The following shout keeps me smiling as I jog up the stairs.

            By Wednesday the mutant is gone, and I refrain from asking Wade why both of them were wet or how he plans to get the stink out of the house. For two-thousand dollars, or whatever he earned from this jailbreak, he can afford a new couch.

            “If I help you drag this into the backyard, can we set it on fire?” By backyard, I mean the strip of dirt and dead grass between us and the alley.

            Wade is wearing a t-shirt, boxer shorts, and tall wool socks, exposing more reddened, disfigured skin, but his mask remains on. I’ve yet to see him without it.

            “I don’t know, Ms. Responsibility, wouldn’t that endanger the public? Just kidding,” he swats his hand at me, “go get some lighter fluid.”

            My god, he’s fun. “You don’t want to move this out first?”

            “If you asked, do I want to move it out _while_ it’s on fire, then you are our grand prize winner! Of a burning couch fire. We’ll also throw in some designer hot pads.”

            “You cooked them in the oven to see if they’d burn,” Al calls from the kitchen. “Jackass.”

            I click my tongue. “What label were they?”

            “Great Value.” He nods his head dolefully. “Tragic, tragic, tragic.”

            The couch is shoved first one way, then another through the kitchen door. Wade makes up nonsense curses like “crap waffle” and “ass dinghy”, and all the laughing only weakens my efforts to push. The couch becomes wedged in sideways, so Wade disappears and then reappears with a sledge hammer.

            “No, not the doorframe.” I grab his arm, laughing again. “Aim for the couch, you idiot.”

            “You don’t know what I’m aiming for, so just hush.” He hits the doorframe and it shudders.

            “Screw you, let me do it.” I heft the tool out of his hands, and bend over as the head hits the floor. “Shut up.”

            “I didn’t say anything yet. I’m barely saying anything now- here.” He covers his mouth with both hands and mumbles behind them.

            Al clucks into her coffee behind us at the table. I gather my muscles and slide my hands into position on the handle. _It is lighter than Thor’s hammer. You are worthy._

I laugh at that thought, raise the hammer, and swing. Eight minutes later Wade and I are admiring the sounds and smells of a disgusting couch fire.

            “Bonfire,” Wade blurts. “Let’s have our own, crappy Burning Man right here, now, you have thirty seconds, make it work.”

            I start with the stack of cardboard beverage boxes piled against the trashcan, while Wade takes off his socks and throws them into the flames.

            “You’ll thank me later.”

            “Trust me, I’m thanking you now.” I’ve passed by his room when the door was cracked open. “Hang on, I’ll be right back."

            I jump to the top floor and rummage through the boxes I brought a couple days ago. Magazines, notebooks, and an old bra from high school- he’ll get a kick out of that one. The shirt I wore to bed last night is pretty threadbare too, so I flip the bedcovers to find it when the burner phone falls out and its battery spins across the floor. I set my bonfire items aside and reassemble the phone, turning it on to make sure it’s not damaged. Putting it in my pocket, I collect my materials and run downstairs. I’m nearly to the kitchen when the phone rings.           

            I smile. Even though I left the ringtone generic, I remember being tempted to change it a karaoke song Clint stumbled through at Steve’s birthday. Vince heard him sing it. I think I remember him laughing into my shoulder to muffle the noise. The phone is still ringing.

            “You might want to get that.”

            “Shut up.” I fling the bra into the flames, receiving a pleased “ooh” from Wade.

            “Isn’t bra burning a little before your time? Eh, what the heck, feminism’s cool again.” Wade takes off his shirt as I turn away and there’s a _fwoom_ as it's added to the pile. I’m afraid I’ll come back out to find him completely naked. Except for the mask, of course.

            Aware of Al’s keen ear, I ascend the stairs again and answer the call on its last ring. “Hey, how’d it go?”

            “Amy? It’s Laura. I know you only wanted my husband to call this number, but he’s in jail.”

            Laura knows she can call me Ace, and I’ve never heard her refer to Clint as her husband before. My step quickens. “What needs to be done?”    

            She doesn’t pause for breath. “Steve called me. He’s trying to get a lawyer and some funds together to clear this mess up. Looks like you’re the only _lawyer_ we know.”

            I’ve made it to the second floor by now. “Where should I meet him?”

            “He’s sending his associate, but she needs to know where to meet you.”          

            She? I hold the phone to my chest and yell down the stairs. “Where do all the white people drug deals go down around here?”

            “Over by the Laundromat,” Al answers. “And the drugs are weak.”

            “Thank you.” I look up the address on my laptop, and Laura writes it down. Perhaps I should try to reassure her, but this can’t be the worst thing Clint’s put her through.  

            “Steve wouldn’t tell me where Nat was,” she says in a new tone of voice. “Normally she’s the one calling me. Is she alright?” Unscripted, she catches herself. “I’m sorry, you probably don’t know either.”

            “Steve would tell you if she wasn’t.” That’s as close as I come to comforting Clint’s wife.

            Ten minutes later when she calls again telling me to expect Steve’s associate around five, I still say nothing that would imply I’ve dined at this woman’s table and love her family more than life. We hang up, and I begin to wonder if there’s something wrong with me.

            At five o’clock sharp, a winsome blonde in an expensive leather jacket and aviators walks right up to me across the street from the Laundromat. First impression: she’s a classy hooker on the wrong corner approaching someone who’s clearly not a john. Second impression: she’s an undercover spy in a seedy part of LA dressed as an undercover spy.

            “You’re not very good at this, are you?” I ask.

            “You don’t make yourself easy to find, do you?” she clips followed by a sisterly smile, very devised.

            I haven’t been keeping up with the news on the Avengers and want it to look that way. “Who else is on time-out?”

            “Wilson, Maximoff, and someone named Lang. The Accords have them detained in a high-security prison called the Raft. I’ve been unable to secure coordinates, but we know Stark’s been there on official business. Romanoff’s our source, but if she has coordinates she isn’t sharing. Steve says he trusts your skill set on this.”

            Natasha too, apparently.

            “Meet him tonight, 8pm Eastern Time.” She hands me a card not unlike the ones Coulson used to carry, and flashes one last devised smile. “Nice meeting you.”

            I’m in the compound within the minute knowing Tony could be anywhere on the fifty plus acres. If he’s not, FRIDAY will know where he is or even where this Raft is. She’ll be harder to get information out of than him, but I’m willing to try.

            I’m breathing hard as I traverse the halls, knowing the longer it takes me to find him the closer I am to punching a wall. If FRIDAY’s identified me by now- invisible and moving fast- Tony will either send someone to stop me or confront me himself.

            When I see him climbing the stairs from the small machine shop on this side of the compound, and take a step back. He’s mostly cuts and bruises- a black eye, a favored left arm, tension in his neck. I recognize the contusions his mask makes when his head gets bashed around in it- scrapes and scratches along his forehead. Someone got him into a corner and beat him hard.

            So I don’t.  

            Tony speaks first to Rhodes who’s in a wheelchair, and I pay attention to all the open mental avenues there. Mostly mechanical as Tony is devising a way to get Rhodes walking again- the hell happened to him? Neither of them mentions the others, or thinks about where they’re being held. Tony puts a hand on Rhodey’s shoulder, and Rhodey holds it there for a second as his face shows a willingness to accept the defeat Tony cannot.

            We start walking again, Tony doing calculations in his head to keep from thinking about deeper issues. At the far end of the main building Tony finds Vision seated in the living room with a chess board before him on the coffee table. Tony seats himself on a lounge with less panache than usual, and they begin conversing.

            This is all there is. Tony, an android, and a cripple. These are the Avengers.

            Vision brings up Wanda first, and I get everything I need as soon as Tony thinks back to the last time he saw her. I’m gathering coordinates, safety protocol, the faces and names of faculty there, when Vision finally looks over Tony’s shoulder at me. Tony turns, and I jump away.

            Steve is talking to a man at the edge of the airfield when I arrive at the designated time. I don’t recognize the man, who does a double-take when I appear, but Steve formally shakes his hand before walking toward me.

            We meet in the middle and I can already tell this is going to be hard. 

            “Are we good?” he asks.

            I hand him the coordinates and a weather reading of the intended route while eyeing the quinjet parked imperturbably in an open hangar. “I didn’t ask politely.”

            This catches him off-guard. “He doesn’t know you were there?”

            “He does.” I sigh heavily. “Vision always knows when I’m around.”

            Steve presses his lips into a fine line and looks at the papers in his hands. “I didn’t mean for you cross Stark. I don’t know what deteriorated there-”

            “It’s fine.” I cut him off, studying his knuckles and the tape around one broken finger. “What’s the plan?”

            “You and I fly straight there, and you secure us a landing. We get in, I handle personnel, you handle the cameras and find our friends. If we get out in one piece we head right back here and split up. If not, we make a pit stop in Wakanda for fuel and medical. Anything you’d like to add?”  

            For a moment I say nothing. Then I trace the yellowed skin on his cheekbone around a once impressive welt, the pale sliver of healed skin in the center showing where the welt burst when it was hit again. As he approached there was a hitch in his stride when his abdominal muscles clenched from pain. The fact that he heals faster than Tony only proves the intensity of these injuries.

            I tuck my hands inside my elbows. “Tony looks like he was beat with a shovel.”

            Steve bites his tongue and hangs his head. “I’m sorry. I did everything I could to keep it from coming to that.”

            I raise my hand. “With the exception of New York, I’ve never known Tony to take a hit he didn’t deserve. That and he’s been on the verge of a breakdown for a while now. I just never thought he’d take it out on you.”

            “Well, just know I deserved some of my hits too.” He claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s go get Clint.”

            He aims me at the quinjet, and I pick up his stride. I wait until we’re in the air to ask. “Where’s Natasha?”

            He sighs through his nose. “If she’s wasn’t at the compound and she isn’t in prison, she’s probably on the run again. She switched sides at the last minute, and I don’t think Tony was ready to forgive her.”

            “She helped you fight the assassins?”

            “No.” His voice becomes grim. “They weren’t a problem after all. But she did help Bucky and I get away. You didn’t get to meet him, he’s-”

            “Your friend from the war who’s been alive all this time; Sam told me.” I unbuckle my seat and walk around the cabin. “Why isn’t he on this mission?”

            “He’s still a fugitive and didn’t want to compromise us, so he’s staying somewhere safe right now.”

            Somewhere safe. “Who’s your ally in Wakanda, Steve?”

            He huffs and arches a brow. “King T’Challa. You’d like him.”

            I don’t like what that implies. “Had I come when Clint called, would they not be in prison right now and Rhodey be up and walking?”

            The lack of response makes me sweat. Why didn’t I just go? Because I would’ve ended up doing what Nat did, and by having less respect for authority than any of them I would’ve found a way to make matters worse. And I’d never let them lock me up.

            “Ace,” Steve finally says over his shoulder, “we were being played from the start. You’d have ended up like the rest of us, knowing you hurt people you trust. The fact that you’re here now proves that you made the right decision. Otherwise, I’d be doing this alone.”

            I clasp my hands behind my neck. “You could do this alone.”

            “I could, and have,” he admits, “but I’d rather not. You did save my life once.”

            “When?”

            “When we first met.” There’s a hint of positivity in his voice. “You threw me out of the way of a Chitauri chariot.”

            I return to my seat. God. That feels like twenty years ago. “I don’t remember doing that.”

            “Well, I’ve never had a problem trusting you since,” he says with trademark confidence.

            Just this morning Wade and I were being dangerous and ridiculous. Now I’m back in the quinjet with the Captain, about to break into a high security prison to release friends the law says should be there. It’s a job I was made for, a job I’m good at, and it’s far more fulfilling than roasting a stinky couch. So why do I wish I wasn’t here?

            Hours go by with nothing but black ocean stretching from horizon to horizon. Steve says his contact let the prison know there would be an arrival, so there should be a landing spot ready. I don’t understand why alerting them was necessary until I see the stadium sized prison rise up out of the ocean, seawater sluicing from ports in the sides, and blinding white lights forming an outer and inner ring in the flat top.

            “Raft Prison Control to transport, permission to land pending. Who is your captain? Over.”

            Steve cocks his brow. “You think I should answer?”

            “I thought that was my job.” I pull on a slick jacket as the flashing lights come into view.

            Steve puts his hand on the ramp controls, but I touch his arm to stop him. Deciding on a section of roof, I teleport to the surface, slip on the wet metal, and slide on hands and knees across the landing hatch, my boots bumping into flashing red lights the size of car batteries. Ear to the metal, I judge the drop to be about eighty feet. I look up, and the quinjet tips her wing in acknowledgment before I disappear and phase through.

            Telekinesis softens my landing in the center of a circular hangar bay. The first humans I see are two U.S. soldiers guarding a door, a door that once phased through leads to control. The men and woman at the controls are not yet perplexed by the aircraft hovering over them, though Steve’s stall tactics aren’t convincing the operator. All eight minds become tangible, and if I stretch out my hands, I can almost feel their softness against each finger tip.

            The quinjet is cleared for landing, the hatch is opened, the platform is raised, and the guards approach the rail to defend the guest in case of a breakout. I wait until Steve’s footsteps are descending the ramp before letting my drones take a nap.

            We stick to the plan. I leave the guards to Steve, he relies on me to communicate with the computers, cameras, locks, and sensors. In the event he gets to a door before I can unlock it, some smashing is involved and I wonder whose taxes will cover it.

            Except for Wanda, the prisoners- Clint, Sam, and the extra guy- are all on Level 8, so when Steve exits the elevator and appears on my screen, Clint and the extra guy turn their heads. I was happy to find them all in one place, not mixed in with other prisoners, with criminals. One of the names in the other levels is listed as Lensherr, Erik. I smother my curiosity and don’t click on his security feed.

            With precision, I instruct the system to unlock each cell in Level 8, and savor the efficient silence of technology doing its job. The bars to Sam’s cell roll upward and the glass door slides aside. Sam steps out, and he and Steve embrace. I feel his relief even if I’m not in the room, even if I’m nowhere near the people Steve is rescuing. They can’t believe he came, but they knew he would. They are relieved, but also awed. Am I really worth coming back for? Have I really earned this reward? Do I actually deserve to be valued by such a reliable person?

            I delete the footage and leave the room.

 

            Their uniforms, suits, wings, and bow I relocate and have waiting for them in the hangar. Sam has already disposed of the top half of his prison uniform, and is stalking toward the platform in his undershirt and pants alone. Wanda appears stunned and bedraggled, her arms numb from the straitjacket. I learned why she was under house arrest. I have no pity for her.

            Once we’re all aboard, I raise the ramp while making sure my drones in the control room can still lift the platform and open the hatch. As soon as daylight shines through the skylight, Clint grabs me and kisses me on the cheek.

            “You rotten traitor. Couldn’t have come sooner?”

            I push him away. “Go sit down, we’re taking off.”

            He doesn’t react like I’ve just brushed him off without a hint of sarcasm. He just laughs, perhaps the first time in days, and goes to his seat clutching his suit, bow, and quiver to his chest. Wanda straps in, but holds her head in her hands as if she’s about to cry. Sam asks, “Where’s Barnes?”

            Steve replies, “He’s safe.”

            “That doesn’t answer my question.”

            Steve lifts his head slightly. “I’ll tell you later.”

            The man named Lang, who Sam called Tic-Tac and Steve called Scott, is looking at me blankly like he’s not sure who I am or not sure where he is. His suit had red push buttons on the gloves, a respiratory mask, and smelled funny- as in I have no idea what that smell was.

            I could jump home now and avoid the awkward ride and the stress of possibly being pursued. Instead, while I’m still deciding, I buckle in as we ascend.

            Wanda rubs each finger individually and presses her palms together like her hands have missed each other. Really, she’s trying to make them feel again. A hint of red phantasm fizzles between them.

            “Probably best you not do that,” I say.

            She glances up, her eyes go cold, and she clenches her hands in her lap. “It wasn’t harmful.”

            I raise both eyebrows and don’t look away. “You’re not really the best judge of that are you?”

            “Ace, c’mon.” Sam’s holding me with the same heavy look I’m giving Wanda. “It’s been a helluva week.”

             I hold his gaze then turn back to Wanda while popping my knuckles one-by-one. None of this would have happened if you’d been more careful in Lagos; if you hadn’t killed innocents. You’re the reason your city is gone and your brother is dead. Now the Avengers are cursed with you, and see what you’ve done?

            I crack my neck. “Jinx."

            Wanda releases her seatbelt, which I don’t take as a threat because it’s safe to do so now, but Clint and Sam are unbuckled and on their feet immediately.

            “Alright, Ace, what is your problem?”

            “We’re in an airplane over the ocean, guys.”

            Steve turns his seat. “What’s going on back there?”

            Lang sinks into his seat and looks to Steve for some kind of reassurance.

            Meanwhile, I’m still belted in sipping my own cup of tea and wondering why their panties are in a bunch. Wanda might be looking at me sideways, but she only released her seatbelt so she could roll her shoulders.

            “At least I got off my ass.”

            I smile. “And you managed not to kill anyone this time.”

            “Ace,” Clint leans down, takes hold of my chair, and looks me in the eye, “you need to seriously consider what it is you think you’re doing right now. Because I will duct tape that mouth shut if you can’t keep it shut yourself.”

            People used to beg me to talk. “We should have left her behind. She’s the actual criminal.”

            “Then I guess we should’ve left you too, huh?”

            Contempt. He knows he’s said all he needs to. I unclasp my seatbelt, and he makes eye contact with Wanda before sitting down. Lang straightens his slouch, and Sam stays standing until Clint relaxes, but keeps his eye on me nonetheless. I am still the dangerous one.

            Removing my slicker, I open the slender locker that has my name on it and hang the garment back up. You don’t make problems for your team, but this is no longer my team.

            This isn’t a team at all.

            Without turning to face any of them, I jump back to the alley. There’s the stupid, smoking couch. There’s another empty can of lighter fluid. There’s the stack of things I was going to burn, still waiting, but with no Wade to watch. There’s my concern, respect, and sympathy snuggled amongst the embers.

            There is something wrong with me, and it is getting more wrong every minute. I feel the wrongness spreading, but I don’t know why it’s wrong. I don’t think it matters, so I don’t think I care. I’m okay with not caring. I am not happy, or angry, or sad about it. Just okay.

            I’m okay.


	77. Chapter 77

            The armchair I never see Wade in is filled with knives- I notice this before I sit down. With all the knives removed, the chair sags and asks for an early death. It does not face the TV, which is why I chose it because otherwise I’d have to stare at my reflection in the dark screen.

            It’s nighttime when Wade returns. I hear him whistle at the tidy ash heap in the backyard. I rekindled the embers and kept the blaze at a roar until nothing was left of anything. None of his neighbors called the fire department, so they really must be used to him. Or they have a lot of their own fires to hide.

            I haven’t left the armchair, even if the one at the compound is more comfortable. I forgot to turn the lights on when the sun went down, then reasoned that it didn’t matter. So, Wade walks in on me in his living room in the dark, the screen of his phone glowing in one hand, a suspicious plastic sack in the other.

            “What happened to you? You look like you just watched two hamsters try to kill each other.”

            “No, just the aftermath.” I brush my hair out of my face and remind myself I need a shower; I smell like seawater. “What’s in the sack?”

            “Oh, German car parts. A buddy of mine got to salvage the trash from some airport in _Deutschland_. They had a baad week.”

            Unfortunately, I know what he’s talking about this time. Steve informed me during our flight that that was where Tony attacked them and got the other arrested. “The Leipzig airport. I heard it got trashed.”

            “Hell yeah, one of the planes was missing a whole wing! I really wanted to see one that was tied in a knot, but everyone always beats me to those kinds of clearance sales. It would’ve gone great with my pirate ship.”

            I rub my eye with the ball of my hand. “Wait, how’d you get to Germany so fast? They let you on a plane with a bag of car parts?”

            “Huh? Oh, no. I teleported. See?” he pulls a device out of a pocket on his suit and waves it at me. “Teleports places. Tell your friends. But don’t cuz I look cooler being the only one. Also it glitches sometimes and it’s _hysterical_. Are you in a Japanese biker gang?”

            I have no desire to respond to that, until he turns the lights on and I see I’m still wearing my black suit, sans the Avengers logo.  

            “If you are that’s cool, I respect your lifestyle choices- can I join? I already have katanas and a scooter.”

            I angle my head when I look at him. “What kind of biker gangs do you know that need katanas?”

            “All of them.” He empties out the sack on the floor, and a spark plug bounces off my boot. It’s a pile of stuff he could get anywhere, some of it’s even damaged.

            “Aw, what?” Wade stoops down to pick up a piece in the center of the pile. At first it seems he too is dismayed by his catch, but then he starts to pull a wispy fibrous material off the engine part in his hand. “He gave me the pieces with this crap on it. Stuff was all over the place, it was like _Eight-Legged Freaks_ but with a German dub.”

            Maybe Clint has a new “webbing” arrow or something.           

            “Did you see those Avenger dorks? Those guys are a _mess_. Glad I’m not a hero. Government tries to regulate my job, I’m gonna be pissed.”

            “They do, murder is illegal,” I turn halfway in the chair to pop my back, “you and all your clients are breaking the law.”

            “Whaat? Really? Wait I think I knew that. Yeah, yeah, I knew that I just didn’t care.”

            I roll my eyes.

            “So you’re totally one of them, right?”

            My heart jumps. “One of what?”

            _“Sweet Christmas.”_ He drops the item in his hands, webbing stuck to his gloves. “What’s Cap like how does Hulk fit in a car do you have redhead’s number do they just take the roof off how tall is Thor does he really smell like a Norwegian sweat lodge-”

            I _yank_ him down and he falls on all fours into the pile of junk. Leaning forward to be at eye-level, I lower my voice. “I am not an Avenger. Tell anybody you think I’m an Avenger, and I will turn you and your precious weapons over to the government- I’m talking men-in-black types not Barney Fife- and if that’s not enough I will find something on you that is. I am not an Avenger, and I am none of your business. Got it?”

            He nods fervently.

            Letting him go and realizing what I’ve done, I shiver. “I’m sorry for knocking you down.”

            Wade gulps. “That was so hot I peed a little.”

            Relieved, I fall back into the chair. I feel like crying and that ticks me off.

            “What happened between you and the Aven- the people you aren’t a part of?”

            “Nothing. They’re fine. I said it’s none of your business.”

            “If I was a superhero, I’d hate it. Everyone would rely on me to save them all the time. Then I’d start to feel guilty over all the ones I didn’t save, and then I’d wonder what the hell I was doing with my life and I’d lose focus and end up doing something stupid like piss off the other superheroes. Then I’d meet a promiscuous gal, get drunk, and pass out in a gutter- if I could still get drunk.” He sighs wistfully. “I miss that gutter.”

            This has been a long, extraordinarily stupid day. “I’m ordering a pizza. Maybe three.”

            “Get extra pineapple,” he shouts as I leave the room. “And ice cream, cuz I can already tell it’s gonna be one of those nights. FUDGE. TOPPING. Shell not syrup, pretty please _.”_

            “I’m not Weasel, so shut up.” I slam the door.

            I mean to eat a pizza on my own, just find some park or quiet beachside bench and consume a few thousand calories all by myself. But, I return to the warehouse with all the food intact and a bag of M&M’s to go with the chocolate syrup. I did force the guy to his knees.

            When I come in, Wade’s leaning back so far in a kitchen chair that gravity must be salivating. Al sits at the other end of the table behind the large novelty mug that says “World’s Best Dad” on it, oblivious to the inane chatter about to fall flat on his back.

            Wade’s gloved hands spring up over his head at the sight of me. “You _did_ get ice cream.”

            The chair falls, but he’s already up and out of it helping me with the pizza boxes.

            “Al, we’re having a slumber party upstairs. Don’t follow us.”

            “Why the hell would I want to?” she mutters into her bowl of coffee.

            I hold out the box of breadsticks to her. “You want pizza or ice cre-”

            Wade shushes me. “She’s _fine_ , Ace, she said she’s _fine_.”

            Even though his room is closer, Wade passes right by the door and carries the pizza upstairs to my room. I look at the door to his room, knowing it stinks like hell and from the outside I can see that the windows are covered to block the light.

            “You coming or what?”

            “Don’t be rude,” I blurt out. I sound like a white-lady schoolteacher in the 50s, and feel silly until I hear a submissive “sorry” in response.

            I don’t mind that the pizza leaves grease stains in my comforter- the pizza itself could be better- or that we’re both too lazy to get spoons for the ice cream so we eat it with the crusts. I’ve never let myself get away with this much sloppiness before. It feels acceptable around Wade.

            I’m lying with my head over the side of the bed, doing my best to induce a headache as the blood rushes to my temples, when Wade finally asks,

            “Why’d you move in with me?”

            “Because there were no obligations.” You didn’t even ask for rent. I lift my head to look at him. “And you make me laugh.”

            He sucks ice cream off a floppy breadstick then bites into it. “You went solo, Zayn, you broke up the band.”

            “Nah, they broke up without my help. Creative differences.” My head is throbbing now. “It’s possible, I guess, that they’d still be together if I hadn’t left, but I doubt it.”

            “To clarify, we are talking about your parents, right?”

            “What?” I lift my head again. “No. You were talking about- Forget it.”

            The breadstick is thrown back in the box and he yawns loudly. “Well, their loss. Who cares? If what you’re doing isn’t doing it for you, then break up with it.”

            That stings a little, though I doubt he meant it to. “Is mercenary work doing it for you? Because you spend a lot of time looking for money.”

            “Hey,” he says defensively, “that’s because I spend it all as soon as I get it. It’s called investing.”

            “In what, knives and ammo?”

            “No, not just those things,” he replies mockingly, “I have grenades, bazookas, Tammy Faye’s Bible, I _had_ a tank, but- And I have bills too, y’know. Storage for this stuff does not come cheap.”

            “That’s why there was a chair full of knives in the den.”

            “Precisely, and it took a long time to fit them all in there, so thank you for emptying out that pin cushion. I was going to submit it to the MoMA, they eat stuff like that up.”

            “Wade, take your mask off.”

            “No, I don’t want you to see what I look like.”

            I can’t help but laugh here. “I’ve already seen the rest of you, what difference does it make?”  

            “Because it’s disgusting.”

            “Dude, I’ve seen a lot of awful crap in my lifetime. What if I tell you something disgusting about me?”

            “Really? Okay- No, you don’t have to- No, you do.”

            I lick my lips, consider the retribution for what I’m about to say, and say it. “I murdered all the people who might’ve killed my husband, snapped all their necks. Two hundred necks.”

            “What the frick, who the hell was your husband? What kind of ugly mosh pit did you get into? Were they a rival ninja motorcycle gang?”

            “They were HYDRA, we were mutant, figure it out.”

            “That’s your most disgusting fact? Do you have a better one? Were you living at that mutant school?”

            I don’t move. “What school?”

            “The one that got stomped on by HYDRA. Xavier’s- no, wait- it’s called something else now, named after a lady. Gina Carano? Gina Torres? Gene Simmons?”

            I watch him closely. “Do you have family there?”

            He snorts and slaps his leg. “Do I have family there, that’s a good one, family _._ I have sworn enemies there, or at least they think I’m their sworn enemy. Those hall monitors really need to lighten up and take a joke.”

            If the X-Men knew Deadpool I think I would’ve heard about it. “What did you do to them?”

            He giggles. Then he laughs out loud. Then he lies back with his arms behind his head. “Nah, it’s better you don’t know. But claws and diamonds hate my guts.”

            If that doesn’t fill my heart with warmth.

            There’s a two second lull where, surprisingly, Wade says nothing. Then he peels his mask off one careful inch at a time, as though waiting for me to say “when.” His face, like the rest of him, is horribly disfigured and misshapen- burn scars stretch over it like living shrink wrap. No hair anywhere, and it’s hard to distinguish personal attributes from the mess, but his eyes are blue. Blue and a little nervous.

            I smile and sit up. “You’re beautiful, Wade. You look like Brad Pitt crossed with Leonardo DiCaprio.”

            “Okay, that was cruel and I’m gonna have to ask you to take it back.”

            I push the empty boxes off the bed and lie down properly. “I take it back, you look like roadkill.”

            “Good enough for Mama June.” He leans in, lips puckered, and I push him back with one finger on his chest. “You’re right, I should’ve asked.”

            “You didn’t need to, bub.”

             He squints at me, a curious feat when parts of his face won’t move right. “Ju’ know the paso doble?”

            Translation failed, I close my eyes and sigh through my nose. “What kind of job are you working tomorrow? Do you need help and can I come?”

            He starts to tell me, but I can’t hear him over the cell phone ringing. I don’t move for it, thinking that if I ignore it then it isn’t there. Wade keeps talking over the sound, and the phone keeps ringing. Maybe it’s Laura, and Clint didn’t get home after all. Maybe the quinjet went down before they got to Wakanda and now all of them are dead. Steve wouldn’t let that happen, and Tony built that craft to last.

            Wade's still talking, nonsense even if I could hear it. I bolt off the bed, find the phone, and rip the damn battery out. I throw both pieces into an empty corner of the room and bite my tongue to control myself. “What?”

            “My client’s got some cargo at the docks, but his ex-business partner is sending guys to steal it.”

            “Great, so we’re protecting it from the thieves?”

            “Nah, I’m shooting the thieves, and you’re checking to see what it is. This guy’s shipped some nasty things into the country before. Drugs, I don’t mind. Guns, fine if I get to keep some. But one time there were people in the containers. I told him I didn’t know how they got out, and the sonuvabitch believed me.”

            There a shooting pain in my head and neck. I come back to the bed, holding the back of my head for support. “You didn’t do anything else? I mean, I know he’s your client-”

            “Guy’s scared shitless of me.” Wade pulls his mask back on and tucks it into the black collar of his suit. “I know I’m a bad guy, but that doesn’t mean I have to be _their kind_ of bad guy.”

            Any man willing to take a bullet point-blank for a stranger’s child isn’t someone I’m about to condemn. “What if there are more people there when you go?”

            “Then I’m making him into sausage. Guy’s stupid enough to do it twice, he says hello to my little friend.”

            I shake my head. “Wade, don’t…”

            He waits for me to finish and when I don’t he shakes his own head. “I’m not like the other boys. Captain American may be awesome, but I’m not Captain America. I’m not Hulk either, which would be really sweet.”

            He picks up the boxes from the floor and the crusts off the bed, and I watch him do it without thinking to help. I’m not thinking about him or his client the human trafficker. I’m not even thinking about the phone and Clint trying to call me. I’m just not thinking.

            “Watch this, watch.” Wade smacks his free hand against the device in his pocket and disappears. I hear someone messing with the garbage can by the back door, and know it must be him. Then he appears in the room again without the boxes. “Sick, right?”

            “How does it know where you want to go?”

            He shrugs. “So will tomorrow be like a first date?”

            “That was probably when you bought me a burrito and blew up a crate of magazines.”

            “Aw, I thought it was the awkward truck ride in New Orleans, or the Spam salad in Hawaii. Wait, no, that was someone else.”

            I rub my arm, not registering anything he’s saying.

            “You still have that dead hamster look. Hello? Are you okay?”

            I try to think about the question, scanning for all the things that aren’t okay. “No. I think I’m a mess.”

            “Would a hug make it better?” he puts his arms out.

            I know a trap when I see one. The hug will be too tight, last too long, and he might get grabby. I tilt my head back and sigh at the ceiling.

 

            Something wakes me early. Neighbors are yelling at each other down the street- too far away, I think, for someone normal to hear. I move closer to Vince and curl up against his back. The smell of his t-shirt seems off, and the fabric is all wrong. Oh.

            Last night, with the headache and the not-thinking-straight, I let Wade fall asleep on my bed. It wasn’t smart, like letting a stray dog into the house so now he knows he can. He slept on top of the covers, snored some, but I liked not being alone. Maybe a stray dog would be better.

            I move away again and hope Wade didn’t notice. When Wade does move, it’s much later. He’s at the window, standing inside the curtain that’s really a bed sheet with his hands on his hips, looking ridiculous. I don’t want to get up. I agreed to go with him today, but it makes no difference if I don’t.

            He pulls the sheet away, and I shut my eyes from the light. I can’t remember what else happened yesterday. I don’t want to get up today.


	78. Chapter 78

            Wade brought bolt cutters and a package of hot dogs to the shipping yard.

            “Keys to the city,” he brags.

            We don’t have to cut our way in, but I let him feed the Dobermans their hot dogs- they seem familiar with him anyway. Locating the shipping container in question, Wade whips out the bolt cutters and prepares to use them. I snap my fingers and shake my head, so he hands them to me.

            “This guy couldn’t just give you a key?”

            “He has the same key for all his units and doesn’t want me getting into them.”

            I lean the bolt cutters against my shoulder. “So he’d rather you get into them _and_ break all his locks.”

            “Hey, I don’t make my clients take an IQ test, I just make sure they pay me.”

            We share a dry look before I _unlock_ the container. “There aren’t people in there.”

            “What about puppies?”

            “No.”

            “Dolphins?”

            “No.”

            “Clowns? If it’s clowns you’re going to have to stand back and let the man handle it.”

            “You are the man.”

            “Damn, right.”

            “Open the container, Wade.”

            The fence rattles and one of the dogs chuffs. Wade can’t hear this himself, and opens both doors.

            “Nope. Just boxes. Donut boxes.” He sniffs the air. “I don’t smell donuts?”

            I take a knife from his belt and slice the tape off of one. Inside, a shiny white computer tower is nestled in packing peanuts. “Stolen or counterfeit. Don’t see a logo.”

            “Look for a pear with a bite taken out of it.”

            “What?”

            “For the logo. You know, PearPad, PearPod. No? Not a big Dan Schneider fan, are you.”

            The dogs start up a frenzy of barking, and Wade whistles and closes the unit.

            “Hey,” I return his bolt cutters, “I don’t want to see any of the shooting, okay? I know that’s, uh, hypocritical of me, but- If they run, let them run, you know?”

            He cocks his head to the side. “Oh, you sweet, beautiful, moral compass, you. I wouldn’t shoot the dogs.”

            I scowl at him, and he literally twirls around and saunters off, drawing his gun from its holster. When the popping starts, I turn my back on the sound and start investigating the other containers. The yard is boiling, heat emanating from every surface despite the wind off the Pacific. It’s only May.

            After several minutes, two of the dogs rush into view, unnerved by the gunfire. One of them starts barking at me on sight.

            “Stop that.”

            He shuts up and they disappear into the shade. I look around me at the aisles of shipping containers, possibly hundreds. If there are people being held in any of these containers, the heat should have killed them by now.

            Wade’s gunfire ceases, and I hear the sound of the gate being opened and a truck backing in. Three more dogs run past me, but plenty more can be heard barking at the truck. There’s nothing in these containers I need to worry about.

            Eventually, Wade finds me, a big smile under his mask. “Okay, this turned out to be really funny. These guys who just showed up to steal stuff, they’re ol’ pals of mine and they’re stealing someone else’s stuff. It’s a small world after all.”

            I listen for the dogs that went into the shade. “Are they ol’ pals like Soggy McSleaze who ruined the couch is an ol’ pal?”

            “Soggy McSleaze,” he snickers, “that’s good, you made a funny.”

            I turn and head to the back of the lot, sniffing the air.

            “Anyway, I’m going to go see if they need any help. Ace?”

            Another dog runs past me as I follow the yipping and whining, claws circling on the asphalt, inhalations through wet nostrils, hot and hungry panting. Long shadows pass overhead, the flapping of wings, the swarming of flies. At the source, twelve dogs dance around a pair of red shipping containers as a flock of gulls perch on their roofs. Coming within fifty feet I cover my nose and mouth with my hand. I was upwind. I missed it.

            “Looks like we’re late to this barbeque,” Wade aptly states, holstering his gun and drawing the bolt cutters. “Let me do it.”

            I move far away from the doors so that I can’t see inside, my stomach churning as images from my childhood return in vivid color. The dogs center on Wade. They’ll be impossible to control once the containers are open, so I order them away into the shade where they sit panting with excitement. The sharp ring of the steel padlock snapping makes a few gulls flutter. With the dogs away, they land near Wade, perfectly still as they watch his progress. Both hands cover my nose when the doors are open, and Wade steps inside- how he can bear the smell I don’t know.

            “I found the beef!”

            There’s a flapping frenzy at the doors as he exits the container, white heads bobbing as the gulls shimmy away. Wade waves to me.

            “It’s just hamburger patties way past their expiration date. I blew five bucks on hot dogs for nothing.”

            My shoulders relax. “What about the other one?”

            Wade leaves the doors to the container open, and I watch as a few diehard gulls help themselves while the others weave about uncertainly at the entrance. Birds aren’t fond of dark, enclosed spaces. The dogs keen sorrowfully in the shade.

            Another padlock bites the dust, and the doors on the second container screech. “Oh, shit.”

            I hold my breath as Wade enters. When he doesn’t come out as soon as I like, I kick myself and move forward. I’m no stranger to gore. I’d just rather not feast on it.

            The first container is lined with plastic crates, one left open by Wade and infested with seagulls gorging on ground beef. I hesitate at the entrance to the second, listening to him walk around inside. Is he…snapping pictures?

            “Oh god, Wade, that’s disgusting.”

            Rows of pig carcasses, some green with decay, hang on hooks or lie fallen from when their flesh gave way. Wade has opened one of the crates in the back and is taking selfies with some poor swine’s head. “Her name is Babette and she’s going in the den.”

            “No, she’s not, I’ll move out. I’ll move out and take Al with me.”

            “ _Ack_ , get away, Jeff Goldblum.” Wade runs out windmilling because of the flies clouding into the container with him, and perturbed gulls again jump out of his way. I cover my nose with my sleeve and close the doors behind him, leaving the muffled buzzing inside. Shooing the gulls out of the other container, I close that one too and gasp over my shoulder for air.

            “What’re you doing, just let the dogs eat it.”

            “I don’t want them to get punished.” I slide the latch into place. “Even if they can’t cut a padlock, some jerk might find them eating it and blame them.”

            I release the dogs from my mental hold and fast-walk away from the smell. Wade follows at a leisurely pace, still unfazed. At length, he says, “You’re a good person. What the fuck?”

            He sounds angry, genuinely so, not like when he yells at Weasel or the TV whenever it won’t play his porn- I told him it wouldn’t. “Excuse me?”

            “Those dogs are going to get kicked anyway; they just let seven people in here for a package of turkey franks, and are doing nothing about the seagull infestation. So what I want to know is, what the hell are you doing dragging that fine ass around crotch-ugly [insert crappy Southern California town here] alongside my even uglier ass? Don’t you have, like, orphans to be saving or taxpayers to be pandering to? Isn’t there some cushy superhero headquarters where you should be kicking back with a muscular blonde in a banana hammock feeding you grapes from a golden chalice? Don’t you have a great life somewhere else?”

            I clench my fists. “I don’t have to tell you jack.”

            “Uh-oh, the brunette thinks she’s so mysterious.” He waves his hands in the air. “Give it a rest this isn’t a young adult novel anymore. We bonded over ice cream and talked about guys last night that makes this chick-lit.”

            “Fuck off.” I didn’t think the words before I said them, but they were uniquely satisfying.

            “Okay, so I’m the only guy we talked about- yes, now shush- and we did just break into a shipping container filled with meat, so this might be more Quentin Tarantino than Norah Roberts. I don’t even know what Norah Roberts writes, I just felt like dragging her.”

            There’s a _slam_ as his “friends” drop something onto a metal surface. I grind my teeth, feeling sweat run down my back and my socks sticking to my feet. I don’t have time for this guy. I don’t want to be here. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know anything anymore. I wish Vince were here. He’d know what I want. Wouldn’t he?

            “I’m going back to the house. Call me only if you need help.”

            Maybe it’s stupid- all my recent decisions seem to be- but I don’t go back to Wade’s, I jump to Tony’s new mansion. He isn’t here and I’m no longer painfully eighteen, but I roam the house anyway, wondering if FRIDAY runs it and if she’ll figure me out. The bedroom door is open so I walk right in just to see the view from the window and what kind of setting his interior decorator picked this time. The bed doesn’t look like it’s ever been slept in, the bathroom like it’s never been used. The shower has no water stains, and there’s a lack of toiletries on the bathroom counter. I stalk back into the bedroom and open the closet- his clothes- the dresser- his clothes- and look under the bed- one lost men’s sock.

            Where the hell is Pepper?

            It’s an overreaction to care, preposterous to be upset. The woman has a job, a real job, that requires her presence everywhere at all times and not sitting pretty in Malibu. This is just a mistake on my part, I messed up again. I shouldn’t have gone into their bedroom in their house and formed assumptions. How messed up is that?

            I don’t realize I’m visible at first, so it’s a shock when Tony tenses up as I approach him in the compound. Neither of us speaks. I see my face in the mirror over the bar and try to straighten it, but the frown is glued in place.

            “Long time no see.” Tony puts on a smile, but it fails in places just like my face fails to un-frown. “How, uh, how are you?”

            I’m wearing a black t-shirt and the bottom half of my suit. I’m sweating, miserable, and the smell of rotting meat hasn’t quite left my nostrils.    

            “Did you forget something yesterday?” he asks glibly, tucking his hands into his pockets and feigning casual.

            I watch his face, the stiffness of his polite smile, his glazed look overwhelming the pathos that bruises and cuts incite. In that moment I distrust him.

            “Why the hell would you sign that damn thing? I thought you’d never be the guy to do that. After Afghanistan, after your Senate hearings, after SHIELD.”

            “After SHIELD the world changed, princess. We went from being under someone’s thumb to being the thumb.” The smile never fades, he just talks around it. “That’s a whole different kind of pressure.”

            “Enough pressure to beat the crap out of your teammates? They don’t like the new order so they secede and you chase them down?”

            “If we’re going to get up on our high horse, where were you, France?”

            “France was never part of the union, jackass.”

            “No, but you were.” The smile drops. “I have to find out from the Secretary of State that Steve and the others somehow have access to you, that you come when _they_ call?”

            “Access; what am I a nuclear weapon?”

            “No, you’re my _friend_. You’re-” As he trips over his own tongue, his brain reassembles the thought so fast I can’t catch what he meant to say. “When you first showed up- that night you drove me home- you know what I did? I sobered up and I called you back thinking you were my _kid_. Blood tests came back negative like they always do, but I kept you around.”

            “Am I supposed to be grateful for that?” My voice is rising. “Was I the recipient of your great, philanthropic benevolence even though I wasn’t just some other neglected lovechild? Tony, I don’t owe you anything, I don’t have to come when you call. And I didn’t come when Steve called either or your ass would’ve been handed to you long before the poor airport had to suffer. I came because a worried mother of three asked me to find her husband, my _best_ _friend_.”

            Tony’s gaze falters and he looks away.

            “You did that, Tony. You put my friend in prison.” I bite my lip now that he’s not looking. “And you didn’t have the fucking decency to get him back out again. His service meant _nothing_ to you.”

            “Ace, that’s not true, Rhodes-”

            “Even Natasha knew you’d turn us all in if it made up for your sins, if it made you even with the world.”

            “Hey,” he shouts, “speaking of sins, I helped you erase _your_ past, didn’t I? Who let you in on meetings with Coulson, taught you how to hack, and didn’t turn you over when it was you breaking into the Triskelion? I do everything- the Avengers, the Accords- to protect the world and you in it. It kills me that I didn’t stop that shit from happening to you when you were a kid, and that I couldn’t save Vince-”

            He stops just as I turn away. This room is unbearable, overheated. All my eyes can see are the carcasses black with flies as decay overwhelms my senses and pushes my organs into my throat.

            “Ace, I- I’m-” He swallows hard and inhales through his nose. “Jesus.”           

            I take three deep breaths and press my hand to my ribs. _One, two, three…_

            “I can be there in an instant to back you up.”

            Breathe in and out. In, and out.

            “Do you remember saying that? After-”

            “You do realize,” one more breath, “things have changed since then. Princess.”

            “We haven’t. You’ve been my ally longer than any of these jerks.” He flicks his wrist at the bar. “I put faith in you too.”

            I clench both fists. “Where’s Pepper?”

            There’s no response. I stand up straight, unsure what got me so worked up.

            “We took a break.”

            I look at my hands.

            “She moved out.”

            I walk forward. I don’t look back.

 

            The shootout at the shipping yard has begun all over again, and most of the bullets sound like they’re ricocheting off metal. The five men who came with the truck have finished loading it and have Wade pinned down inside the empty container. Sunlight gleams off one sweaty, shaven head as he shuts the container doors.

            Ripping guns from hands, I start hitting.

            I phase, disappear, teleport, and claw until five pathetic men lie sprawled on the asphalt, nursing their wounds and cussing miserably. The guns pop open and their ammo spills out. Four dogs rush in snarling, but I let the men stagger into the truck and make their escape.

            Reopening the container, I shed a little light on my now perforated landlord. His suit is slippery with blood as I lift him up, bracing my feet on the likewise slippery floor.

            “Ow-ow,” he murmurs, grasping my arms as I hold him.

            “Old pals?”

            “Shitface McDicks,” he says with a lisp.

            I don’t wait for him to heal before jumping us home. He chokes a little as I kick his bedroom door open.

            “You’re not allowed in here,” he wheezes, “this is my man cave.”

            You’re bleeding from every part of your body, dude. The dark, catastrophically untidy room bewilders me. “Where do you sleep?”

            He mutters uncertainly and shakes his arm at a pile of bedcovers under a tarped up window. He’s heavier than he looks, his weapons and gear not helping matters. Getting him to the bed, I catch my foot on something sturdy and we both go down. The bedclothes reek, and I lift his arm off me to get away from the smell. His arm is limp from the wound in his shoulder.

            “You gonna be alright?” I unclasp his gloves. “Anything you need me to check?”

            “Well, now that you mention it my-”

            “Forget it.” I let out a long breath and start pulling equipment off him, throwing it in whatever direction I feel like.  

            “What’s he asking for?” Al calls up the stairs.

            “Fu _ghdsng_ Froot Loops,” he shouts into the blanket. I start to take his mask off so he can breathe better, but he grabs my wrist lightning quick.

            “I _like_ the mask.”

            “Okay,” I say softly. “You can keep it on.” I kiss the cleanest spot on it.

            He relaxes his grip. “I’m sorry for _asjhsdcv_ earlier. People always leave before I can try harder. I’m not really an asshole. I’m just incredibly annoying. Upsetting people is funny, but I really like you. It wasn’t funny upsetting you…maybe a little. You’re cute when you’re angry...”

            Al is standing at the foot of the stairs quietly waiting, so I leave Wade and collect the cereal bowl from her.

            “Are his insides falling out again? Because he came home like that once.” Her expression never changes. “Make him drink the milk, I loaded it with painkillers.”

            Wade’s sitting up in bed, holding his side as he gags and spits up a bullet. “Ugh, five down, a gajillion to go.”

            I set the cereal on a cinderblock on the floor- probably what I tripped over. If he’s in pain, he’s not showing it. I reach for his emotions and grimace. He’s in a lot of pain.

            Al begins clanging pots and pans downstairs, and I sit with Wade while he heals. Taking his hand, I remove his glove and rest the back of his hand on my knee. I press my fingers gently into his palm.


	79. Chapter 79

            It’s been eight days since I saw Steve and the others, seven since Tony, and two since Wade coughed up his last bullet. He felt the need to celebrate by going to a Mexican market and bringing me back delicacies from “my heritage.” After seeing what I saw the only delicacy I want is tequila.

            The back door slams. “Get your pork rinds here! Get your- _goddammit._ Who put that there?”

            Al moved a chair in front of the door earlier, and now Wade kicks it across the room. I get up from the couch, never having seen him hurt Al, but he hits Weasel. When I come into the kitchen, however, Wade’s only teasing her in an obnoxious tone of voice as she cooks. Upon seeing me, he turns sheepish.

            “I love what you’ve done with your hair, Al. It’s bluer than ever.”

            She ignores him, now aware that I’m in the room. “Better than no hair at all.”

            Wade mutters under his breath and storms into the den with his purchases. Al continues cooking, and I watch her for another minute before going after him.

            “Wade, how did you repair your suit? It was bullet-hole free when you left on Thursday.”

             He already has a game controller in one hand and Corona Extra in the other. “I didn’t, I just have a backup supply.”

            How much does each backup suit cost? “Give me your suit, I’ll repair it.”

            “You can repair leather and Kevlar? What kind of kinky bar did you work in?” He raises his hands. “Grab a beer and a controller, lady.”

            I sit cross-legged on the new couch that’s already stained and torn. This makes sense somehow. The game is some player vs. player boxing match, and I’m kicking Wade’s butt when I notice him getting extra close to me on the couch.

            “No.”

            “No what?” he leans against my shoulder, throwing my control off and getting my avatar stunned. “No, you can’t wait to ship us?”

            “Ship yourself back to your own side of the couch, bub.”

            He kisses my cheek and scoots away. The game slows down, the graphics shiver slightly, and my avatar gains the upper hand and wins.

            Wade drops the controller in his lap. “Okay. I didn’t know I was playing with a cheater.”

            I don’t hide my smile. “What are you talking about?”

            “You did some kind of telepathic voodoo on the game.” He wiggles his fingers at the console.

            “I assure you voodoo was not involved.”

            “Oh, well then I assure you that was the last time I give you an awkward kiss. Psyche.”

            Wade leaps across the couch, but I duck and tumble across the floor. He grabs the back of my pants, I swing one leg to kick him in the face, but he knocks my other leg out from under me. We wrestle for a handful of seconds, neither of us taking this seriously. I land on my feet laughing so hard tears are coming out of my eyes. “Wade, how did…how did you end up over _there_?”

            He struggles to roll off the tipped armchair. “Will you let me kiss you _now?”_

            “No, you fool.” I escape into the kitchen, inspecting the torn belt loop on the back of my jeans. Good thing we ended that because someone just turned up the front walk. The fact that this weird building has a front walk is merely one of its endearing attributes.

            Al has her headphones on as she reclines in one of the mismatched dining chairs, an electric fan on the kitchen counter just barely fluttering her hair.

            “Give Al a kiss,” I yell at the den, pulling out a chair and sitting by her. She raises an eyebrow, and the man outside the front door raises his foot high.

            I bolt out of my chair, but the door has already been kicked in. The knives I plucked from the chair are still piled by the wall, but Wade’s got a solid ton of mutant sitting on top of him wrenching them from his hands.

            _“Hey,”_ I boom, amplifying the sound.

            The guy gives me the barest glimpse before firing his gun just to scare me off. The bullet explodes within the barrel, and he drops it with a shout. I _yank_ him into the doorway where he sprawls on his back.

            “Get, out.”

            The doorframe shakes when he grabs hold of it to pull himself up. “Girlie, this has nothing to do with-”

            _“My_ house.” I give him an encouraging _shove_ that has him hovering for a hair of a second.

            Frowning, he points a threatening finger at Wade- who is blowing raspberries between coughs. To me he shakes his head. “Crazy four.”

            “Hey, she’s a seven at least,” Wade yells from the floor. Bloody. Again.

            When I see the other knife sticking out of his side I sigh at it. “You’re permanently healing from something, aren’t you?”

            “What, did you think these gorgeous looks were plastic surgery gone wrong? There’s a reason the lumps move.”

            I walk past him to the battered arm chair, and kneel in front of it. “It can’t hold up without the knives in it.”

            Wade plucks the knife from his side, staggers slightly, and tosses it into the pile. “So put a couple back in for support. Go on. Pretend it’s the pin cushion your mom never let you play with.  Go ahead.”

            He speaks like I’m a kitten being offered a bowl of milk. I point to a machete at the bottom of the pile and he brings out two. Finding suitable fissures in the chair, I slide the blades back in.

 

* * *

 

            Weasel slams the door on his ’91 Omni, his laptop tucked under one arm, and a six-pack of Monster on the unpainted roof. There’s a whistle from the porn shop down the street and, like a tourist, he looks up to see the red-haired transvestite waving her fingers at him. Weasel smiles, it comes out a grimace, and he locks the door. Halfway across the street he remembers the drinks on top of the car and scurries back with his shoulders hunched. He should’ve just moved to Vegas, but he’s ninety-eight percent positive Wade underpays him to make sure he can’t. At least the last check kept the tank full.

            Flustered, he forgets to enter through the back door and walks right through the open front door. The doorknob is stuck in the drywall. He gulps. “Did that guy from Altadena come again?”

            “Weas, why do you hate authority?” Wade’s lounging on the new couch with his head leant pensively on his fist. “I swear, you must get this bizarre kick out of biting the hand that feeds because I’ve told you about a thousand times never to come through the front door, and yet,” he holds his hand out, “here you are. Look what happens when you break the rules, Weas; society falls apart, and now we need a new door.”

            The woman snickers from the Poky Chair- yeah, Wade thought it was pretty funny when he made a big show of getting him his own chair. Weasel never likes the women Wade hangs around. They’re either silicone and collagen, or they’re deadly and manipulative.  

            Weasel sets the energy drinks by the TV. “So, uh, I got the joint all figured out; cameras, motion sensors, automatic locks.” He’s not about to tell Wade the place doesn’t have any of those things. “And I can get it all done from here.”

            The woman pulls her legs up into the armchair. “Is this that job you were telling me about?”

            “No, but that one’s going to be sweet.” Wade rubs his hands together. “This one’s that CEO in Silicon Valley. Not the TV show with the other Weasel, but where Bill Gates partied with honeys.”

            She rolls her eyes. “Weas, go ahead and set up in the kitchen. I’ll meet you there.”

            Is she his boss now too? Weasel doesn’t argue, not while Wade’s in the room, and heads for the kitchen because that’s where he was headed anyway. Al usually needs some non-psychotic conversation, and he feels obligated to supply it. But Al’s in the laundry room with those headphones on again, dumping twice as much detergent into the washer as necessary. Ace and Wade talk while he sets up his mobile office, and when she does come to the table, he pretends not to notice her.

            Ace pulls out a chair and sits down beside him. “I’m not your boss, Weas.”

            He looks at her out of his blurry periphery.

            “But frankly, you guys could be making three times the money you are now if Wade used you for something other than hacking security systems that don’t exist.” She knits her fingers and rests one elbow on the tabletop.

            Weasel gulps. “What do you want?”

            She smiles disarmingly. “If I’m going to pad out another check for you, there need to be funds, and I need to know you earned it. So, you and I are going to make some money. Deal?”

            “That depends on the ‘how.’ If you leave Wade out, he’ll cut off my pinky toes; if you let Wade in he’ll screw it up.”

            “I can handle Wade.” She scratches gunk off the table with her thumbnail. “Find out what’s in the guy’s bank accounts.”

            “The CEO?”

            “And the guy who paid for the hit. And if neither of them has money, buy up stock in the company and sell it before Wade fires.” She arches a brow. “You know how to do all that, correct?”

            Weasel looks at her, at the computer, and back at her. “You want us to steal from a customer?”

            “No, I’m going to steal from your customer.” She tilts her head to get a better look at his screen. “He finds out, he can take it up with me.”

            “The customer’s kind of a scary guy.”

            “Even better.”

* * *

 

            I wouldn’t count Weasel as top of his class when it comes to computer science, but he’s still better than I am. This is unfortunate because Weasel seems more bent on escaping than Al.

            “Your clients aren’t that bright, are they?”

            “Not all of them.” Wade stops what he’s doing to throw a pistachio shell at Weasel. “The guy that sent the guy that just tried to kill me isn’t stupid. He owes me money and doesn’t want to pay it.”

            I look at Weasel who only shakes his head at his computer screen. “So, he’s stupid because he’s trying to kill you. Why don’t you just threaten him back?”

            Wade sighs overdramatically and throws his empty beer bottle over his shoulder. “Tell her, Sam.”

            Weasel hesitates in bemusement. “I don’t know why you don’t just kill him either.” He looks at me. “Guys come storming in here all the time, but he never goes after the guys sending them.”

            “Yes, I did, I killed Boberto, remember him? The cartel guy? _Tenia un_ mustache _gigantico._ ”

            “Enough with the killing.” I put both hands up. “I never suggested you kill them, that’s bad business. Just impose a penalty for paying late.”

            “Great, how?”

            “Blackmail. Extortion. Suck their accounts dry so they can’t afford to hire thugs to come after you- better yet, catch up with all the guys they’ve already sent and see if they got stiffed too.” I throw a different pistachio shell back. “Your clients need to understand they don’t want to be on your bad side. Violence begets violence, but if you hurt them in the wallet they’ll remember to pay you on time next time.”

            Wade looks at Weasel, Weasel looks at Wade, and they both look at me. Then Wade kicks Weasel under the table. “How come you never come up with ideas like that?”

            Weasel kicks back. “I do, you just never listen.”

            “Stop kicking,” I say, “and tell me where to find this guy who owes you money.”

 

            The linoleum hallway echoes with my footsteps, a loud, flat, lonely sound. Never fails to make me feel like someone is following. I glance over my shoulder, just to satiate my natural human paranoia. No one back there but the fat bodyguard who doesn’t like how I slipped past him. Another one steps out of the studio’s private office, alerted to my arrival. Big black guy. Wade nicknamed him Citrus. Weasel says he calls all bodyguards Citrus.

            “Thanks for holding the door,” I say.

            The man immediately holds the door open, and I breeze through.       

            A man in a silk shirt looks up from the woman he’s lewdly flirting with and casts a dark look my way. There’s a gun in his desk, and once he opens the email Weasel just sent him, I’ll know what’s in his computer too.

            The woman and the bodyguards leave. The man in the silk shirt, Carlo, obediently goes to his computer and opens the email as directed. I sit on the edge of his desk just in case he forgets who’s in charge.

            “Now,” I turn off the screen, “is there enough cash in the building to pay Deadpool what you owe him in fees?”

            Here I slacken the leash on his mind enough for him to spit a dirty epithet at me. I act as if he said nothing, but make his knee jerk against the bottom of the desk, hitting him just above the kneecap so he leans forward in pain.

            “Tomorrow at ten pm you will bring in cash the full fifteen grand plus twenty in late fees and penalty charges to the storage lot behind the Nifty Thrift by the tracks. You will do so personally and on your own. If you are unable to bring the full amount tomorrow come anyway.” I open a drawer and pull the gun out. Removing the magazine, I place it on his desk with one bullet in the chamber. “If you don’t show up on time, shoot whoever’s responsible. Especially if it’s you.”

            This last command has no telepathic backing, but his eyes widen and his throat goes dry. Leaving the room, I place the magazine in Citrus’ hand. “Thank you for having me.”

            I don’t revert to my own face until I’m home.

           

            Weasel keeps his head down as he dissects the contents of Carlo’s computer.

            “You didn’t tell me you were going to the company to kill this guy.” Wade just dropped a surprise detail on me. “How are you going to get in? Are you going to just scare the crap out of his employees?”

            “It’s a computer company, the employees are all nerds. They get the crap scared out of them when their favorite TV show is cancelled,” Wade gestures to Weasel, “or if they’re exposed to sunlight.”

            “Or if their boss is murdered in their workplace.”

            “Ace, I don’t care where I kill the guy so long as I get paid.” He points his gun at his chest. “Sexy mercenary, remember? Besides, his ex-partner wanted me to do it there.”

            I slap the table, making Weasel jump. “How are you going to get past security when you’re covered in guns? Are you going to shove one in everyone’s face like some kind of stupid bank robber taking hostages? That won’t get the cops on your ass in a second.”

            He slaps the table louder and Weasel’s nose nearly touches the keyboard. “Damn your sarcasm. I know how to get in without getting caught.”

            “After some of the stupid things I’ve seen you do? Yeah right. I’m coming with you.”

            He raises his arms. “Fun. Just like old times. Call the po-po on me again and I’m kicking you out.”

            I push the chair back harshly. “Yeah, like I kicked out that other ‘fun’ guy who tried to excavate your kidneys.”

            “Yeah well, he wouldn’t get very far using the _wrong knife_.” Wade’s voice is exaggerated, but he’s still not actually angry. “Weas, are you making out with your laptop again? You know she doesn’t love you back.”

            We have to rush this Silicon Valley job if we’re to meet Carlo at ten. On the bottom floor of the four story tech firm, I post a drone by a fire alarm and head for the third floor. Wade and I arrived separately, but when I hear him sashay into the executive offices above me, I curse. He’s faster than I thought he’d be. Invisible, I enter the lab directly below him and walk over to a surge protector. This will unfortunately be easy.

            Phasing my foot through the length of the device, computer screens throughout the room go blank, and there’s a cry of shock from the programmers. The fire alarm goes off, the employees nosily complain as they exit the room, and above it all I hear Wade talking. Not shooting, talking.

            Twenty minutes later, after the building’s been evacuated and the fire department still hasn’t arrived, the elevator stops at the bottom floor and Wade gets out with a laptop bag slung over his shoulder.

            “So?”

            He cocks his head to the side. “Is this Demi Lovato I hear?”

            “I noticed an absence of murder upstairs. Care to explain?”

            He breaks into falsetto. _“Tell me if it’s wrong, if it’s right, I don’t caaare.”_

            There isn’t music playing anywhere within my range. I cross my legs in the waiting room armchair, and watch the activity in the parking lot through slanted blinds. Oh look, the fire truck just got here.

            _“Got my mind on your body and your body on my mind-_ What were you saying?”

            “Your hit.” I put down the magazine I picked up. “Dead or not?”

            “Neither. He paid me off.” Wade swings the laptop bag in an arc.

            I frown. “How will the client feel about that?”

            “Well, hopefully he’ll get Susan Sarandon to barge into my office on a hot day and wave the law in my face. Should we do a meet and greet with the arsonists-in-training outside, or find a nice Jacuzzi to snorkel in?”

            Sighing, I gesture for the laptop bag. “Did you count it while you were up there, or were you talking the whole time?”

            He hands it over with a flourish. “I stopped counting at eleven because I remembered this hilarious story from…”

            The zipper sticks it’s so tightly packed, but his story isn’t past the prologue by the time I jerk it open. “Seventy grand?”

            “Girl, you count fast.”

            I lift up the sticky note that names the total. “Boy, you’ve got some kissing up to do with the guy who wanted this guy dead.”

            He points at the bag. “What do you think I got that for? Told him I was being paid thirty-five grand, so he doubled it- I was only getting paid fifteen.” He whispers this last part.

            Zipping the bag shut again, I can’t help but smile. “Why’d he have so much on him?”

            “Can’t you just be proud of me? I see it in your eyes, I just got points. Just say it, say I did a good job.”

            I stand up and press the bag to his chest. “You did a good job, Wade.”

            “Thank you.” He grasps the handle and teleports away.

 

            It’s the storage lot behind the thrift store where things appear to unravel. Carlo, unable to shrug a telepathic command for a full day- I was more or less testing to see if it would work- arrived early with three sacks of money and some goons. Apparently they’d followed him without his knowledge.

            Much gunfire later, I’m chasing down three jerks who each took a sack and tore out the back of the lot. Wade’s got an automatic weapon I didn’t think he’d have to use, and I can’t focus on any one guy long enough to make him stop.           

            A woman. A woman is screaming. I aim my sights on one man. The screaming is from a memory of his. I head for him. She’s fighting; he’s forcing her into a bedroom. The guy looks over his shoulder and sees me, picks up speed. Throws her on the bed; she puts her hands up.

            The other two guys drop like flies as Wade exits the lot firing, his aim precise even in the dark, but my guy keeps running, his mind on other things. He’s almost to the railroad tracks.

            He did it. He raped her.

            I slam him into the rails with my full weight. We scramble in the sharp rocks as I flip him over and jam my knee into his stomach.

            “When was that?”

            “What- When what?”

            “The girl, how long ago was that?”

            “The fuck are you talking-”

            I jerk my head back as blood spurts from his temple and hits my cheek. I stay still, watching the life blink out of him, eyes still open, watching me back.

            “Hey, A-Baby. Were you talking to that dead guy?”

            I jump up and wipe my cheek on my arm. “What did I say about killing?”

            He’s standing by the fence, weight all on one leg and a gun in each hand. “It’ll never happen again.”

            “Just don’t do it that close to me,” I brush off my clothes. “You didn’t kill Carlo, did you?”

            “Nah, he got in the car and took off.”

            Hopefully Weasel finds something on that computer that will keep Carlo off our backs. He tenses up when I wrap my arms around his grungy hoodie.

            “Please tell me you didn’t buy stock in that company.”

            “Never got around to it. This guy has some nasty stuff on his hard drive.”

            “Oh good,” I let go of him.

            Wade starts dropping bags of money on the kitchen table, jostling Al’s meal. “Bread on the table, compliments of- No, _dough_ on the table, that’s better, did you get that? Dough? Nice.”

            I open one of Carlo’s sacks of cash and start counting. “Weasel, how much do you want?”

            “Hey, hey,” Wade points a large knife at me. “I hand out the money around here,”

            Ignoring him, I push a neat pile of bundles at Weasel. “Get a new car and a motherboard. That one’s about to melt.”

            “Yeah, no kidding.” Weasel takes the money without ceremony, and Wade starts grabbing up bags.

            “One of those is mine.” I remind him sedately. “And are you going to get that laptop bag to your other client?”

            “Yes, yes, don’t nag.” Wade pushes a bag at me. “Buy yourself something nice, like a monster truck. Get flames painted on the side, and a custom license plate that says BEA4EVA You’ve earned it.”

            As he drags his money upstairs to his room, I portion out another stack of cash and push it at Al. Weasel glances up the stairs and gives her a bundle from his pile as well. Al shows no reaction as she eats.

            “You both know I got nowhere to spend that, right?”

            Weasel and I look at each other. He clears his throat. “Save it for that rainy day we’re always talking about.”

            “That’s your rainy day, not mine.” She sips her canned soup. “I’ll leave when I’m ready.”

            Weasel looks again at me, and I nod. He packs up his things and says goodbye.

            “He coming back do you think?” Al asks.

            I watch the back door. “I didn’t give him enough, and I need him in order to get more. I know you want to leave. What’s stopping you?”

            Al turns her head slightly, perhaps listening to Wade rolling in money upstairs. “Somewhere at the bottom of that nasty mess is a good soul…and I’ll be damned if I leave before I find it.”

            I close my eyes and listen to her heartbeat, tired but stubborn. I recall the face of Vince’s mother, stoic and proud, and of my mother, furious but determined. Opening my eyes again I lick my lips. “Where’ve you always wanted to go? Scratch that, what have you always wanted to see?”

            She raises her fork. “You are the strangest girl that’s ever been in here.”

            _“Ace.”_ Wade calls.

            “What happened to the other strange girls?”

            Al frowns. “They came for the money. Sometimes he gave them money, sometimes they took his money, sometimes they were given money to come and take his money. Whenever women are involved, Wade loses. What are you going to take when you leave?”

            “Ace, get up here,” Wade calls louder.

            I scratch my arm where the blood has dried, and pick up my payload. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

            Wade jumps out of his bedroom when he hears me coming up. “Perfect, you brought your money too. Okay, let’s go to your room.”

            “I don’t want to roll in my money, Wade.”

            “You want to roll in your money? What a snazzy idea, why didn’t I think of that?” He takes my hand and pulls me up the stairs.

            In my room he pulls an iPod from his utility belt, and speakers from his pants pocket. I hold back my smile as he moves my bed into the middle of the room and uses it to reach the junky ceiling fan. Once he’s done setting unwrapped bundles of money on each blade, he moves the bed back, turns up the music, and switches on the fan.

            “Dance with me, pretty lady.”

            The song has a bouncing rhythm, and the money drifts slowly from above. “What makes you think you can keep up?”

            He starts dancing immediately. “I say, don’t you know? I slaughter at DDR. Yes, I slaughter at most things. She already knows that though.”

            So I dance to outdo him. Paper brushes my face, sticks to my skin, and crinkles under my feet. Wade does a _Risky Business_ slide through it all, lip-syncing every word through his mask. What a weirdo.

            The money hasn’t stopped falling when I squat and kiss him on his mask. Making it part of the dance, I grab fistfuls of cash and rise up again, tossing them in the air. Wade whoops and throws his mask too.     

            “Baby, I don’t know what I did to deserve-”

            Laughing, I push money in his face. “Shut up.”

            Then I kiss him on the mouth. His emotions flutter, then careen, then blare over a megaphone. His hands latch onto my knees, but he doesn’t shift his stance. When I finally pull away, his breath escapes in one long sigh.

            “Gah. Hello.”

            I lick my lips and look at his destroyed face. “What was her name?”

            “Who?”

            “Your girlfriend.”

            “Which one?”

            “Oh my god, Wade.” The song changes and we dance to that too. The money’s stopped falling, so we kick and throw it to get it moving.

            “Vanessa.” Wade throws a wad of cash at me the same time I throw some at him. “What was your hubby’s name?”

            “Vince.” It’s the first time in months that I’ve said his name out loud. It feels strange in my mouth. Stranger after kissing another man.

            Scooping up an armful of money, I tackle him, he slips, and we crash into the floor. It hurts like hell, but we’re laughing hard and Wade’s rubbing cash in my face. My ribs and my stomach ache from laughing, dancing, and falling. I don’t get up. I just let Wade kiss me over and over again.


	80. Chapter 80

            This city is cooking me from the inside out. Each predawn is still warm from the day before, and when the sun comes up one understands how ants feel under a magnifying glass. Walking barefoot on the pavement results in first degree burns- God help you if you brush against metal in a parked car- and sweating is a permanent state. I keep reminding myself this is not the hottest planet I’ve lived on, but after this summer I no longer believe that.

            I suck the sweat off my upper lip, aware of each hair sprung wild and clinging to my face. Wade watches from a neighboring rooftop for me to give the signal. When the money’s been exchanged two floors down, I wave before teleporting the hell out of there.

            The empty apartment complex next door explodes, shattering the windows of the building I was just standing on, and shaking to the core the losers inside who just lost their big real estate deal. I jump to the room, grab the money our rattled but ecstatic client hands to me, and jump to the rendezvous.

            She arrives later by car with that pleased smile clients attain when a plan goes smooth. I’ve already split the take in half on the picnic table, and she sweeps her half into an oversized Prada purse. Wade appears a few moments after she’s called herself an Uber.

            It’s the smile she gives him, fake-y but seductive all the same. “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Deadpool. It was a pleasure doing business with you again.”

            “Please, Kayla, you know you can call me Deadpool.”

            I snicker and accept her side glance. We’re all fakers here.

            Wade and I take the car directly to a fast food joint, order the full menu, and drive across state lines to see a guy about an assault rifle. We drive back, out of food, and with a trunk brimming with explosives. We don’t stop driving until we pull into the parking lot of Wade’s newest multi-story pad.

            He leans across the front seat. “Any chance we could-”

            “No, Wade.” I open the door and get out.

            Within the air conditioned building I pull off both tank tops and stand in front of the fridge in my sports bra. Wade comes in, keeps his distance for a full minute then touches the small of my back.

            “Did you order the pizza ahead of time?” I ask.

             “Absolutely, and got the last of the beer yesterday. Lonnie hates it when I don’t get light beer, so there’s something for everybody.” He rubs his thumb into my back. “You’ve paid everyone, right?”

            “Your merciless freelancers? Toby’s stopping by tomorrow to pick up his check, but I’m sure they’ll show up anyway, Wade. It’s not like we pay them to have lives.”

            He kisses my cheek. “If they don’t come it’s because they’re jealous.”

            The digital clock on top of the fridge reads eight pm. “Sun’s going down.”

            He pulls his mask back on. “I miss you on the night jobs. They aren’t all murder-y, you know.”

            We’ve agreed that I don’t go with him on hit jobs. He doesn’t need my help when it comes to murder. He’s good at it, and thanks to me he gets paid well for it. I just hate how much he enjoys it.

            Once he’s gone I check on Al, send a text to Weasel, and go into the big TV room. Digging around in the couch cushions, I find the bottle of sleeping pills Al lost, and pop a couple. Weasel texts me back about our next hacking job, and I turn the channel to something innocuous. The television is on simply because I’ve gotten used to noise- Wade talking, Wade playing music, Wade arguing with Weasel, Wade blowing something up- and not because I care what I’m watching. It helps me not to think.

            At first I barely register the house phone ringing. It’s three am, I’ve taken another pill, and in my brain I’m waiting for someone else to pick up. On the fourth ring, I get off the couch and find the handset.

            “Hi, is this- is Deadpool there? I was referred to you by a…a friend.”

            I rub my eyes and turn off the TV. Two types call asking for Deadpool: confident criminals and desperate civilians. From the shaking voice and frequent pauses for breath, this one must be the latter. “He can’t come to the phone right now, so tell me what you need.”

            “Oh,” the voice isn’t sure if it should be disappointed or relieved, “okay...I need someone- I’m sorry, this isn’t me but I’m out of ideas.” The voice cracks a little, and I still can’t identify whether it’s male or female. “I need someone to leave me alone. Maybe, maybe scare them? I know that isn’t what you probably do-” 

            “We can do that too.” I sit back down in my armchair.

            “Okay. H-how much just for that? To scare them?”

            I hesitate. “How old are you?”

            There’s silence on the other end. Before they hang up I say, “Twenty bucks for me to scare someone. More for Deadpool.”

            There’s a fluttering sigh of relief on the other end. “Okay. When can you do it?”

            “Where does this person live?”

            Another silence. When they speak again, it’s clipped and hurried. “They’re here, I have to go.”

            “Wait, tell me where you are.” I hope I’m not dealing with a minor.

            “4385 Redwood Drive, San-”

            “Who are you talking to?” demands a voice in the background.

            “Dominoes. I’m ordering a pizza.” My caller is quick on their feet. “I thought-”

            There’s a click as the call is ended. I’ve already changed into a dark shirt and reshaped my face, and now I search for the closest address similar to the one I was given.

            The suburban home I come upon has an overgrown lawn, a new truck by the curb and a dead one in the driveway. It’s almost quiet enough to seem like the wrong house.

            I enter silently and invisibly. Three heart rates are higher than they should be. One is hiding in a bedroom closest, two are in the hallway. I turn on the light and reappear. The man has the woman’s hair twisted around his fist as though he’s trying to pull it all out at once. She’s red in the face, but she isn’t making a sound. She almost appears calm.

            He jolts when he sees me, and drops her entirely.

            “Who the fuck are you?”

            I look from her to him. “I’m your wake-up call.”

            Telepathy sends her into the child’s bedroom, and when he rushes to grab her, I swing an armored fist into his mouth so hard I hear a crack. The bedroom door slams, and the child starts crying softly.

            For their sake, I push the man into the master bedroom and lock the door behind us. He reaches for the bedside table- the phone? The gun taped underneath?- but I spin him around by his shirt collar and punch him hard in the stomach. He falls to his knees groaning, his mouth dripping blood.

            “This isn’t a warning, pal.” I take him by the hair and jerk his head back so he can see me. “You’re done here.”

            To my surprise, the guy laughs at me through broken teeth. “Go ‘head, kill me. They won’t let her last long after that.”

            “Who they?” I ask.

            He smirks, coughs, and continues smirking. Alright then.

            “Your coworkers at 3250 Parkhurst Ave?”

            The smirk loses some vivacity.

            “Do they go by the last names of Carvahlo, Anderson, and Diaz? Shit, looks like you gave ‘em away. Wouldn’t want you to get in trouble, so let’s go clear it up in person, yeah?”

            The creep opens his mouth to say something, but stops when he sees we’ve teleported to the backyard I saw in his head.

            “This the place?” I ask, dragging him to the sliding glass door. “Sounds like there are people inside.”

            “Stop, what the hell-?” He tries to get to his feet, but I jerk him forward so he has to catch my leg for support. He gasps as we phase through the glass door into an empty living room. There are voices in the kitchen, and there I dump the wretch.

            “He wants his share of the cut early.”

            The six faces at the dinner table look up from their card game. I note the minute scent of cocaine in the air, and the underage girl in a tube top with one hand around a bottle of beer and her other in a grown man’s lap.

            A white guy with a tattoo on his neck nods at my hostage. “See, Bill? You didn’t get rid of that bitch when you were supposed you, did you?”

            I lift the table three feet off the ground and the teenage girl shrieks.

            “You’ve all got tonight to get out of town before I send in Deadpool.” I push Bill under the table and drop it. “And take him with you.”

            Two guns and a knife are procured, the girl grabs her phone, but her “date” knocks it out of her hand. I turn the guns on unarmed members of the group, and the knife on its owner’s throat. Bill starts shouting under the table.

            “What do you want?” strains Neck Tattoo, also known as Donald.

            I nod at the card game. “Throw everything in: cash, credit cards, bank cards, guns, and ID. Quinn,” I stare at the frightened girl, “empty the trash can under the sink and fill it with all their stuff. After that, you all leave the state.”

            Grimly, all the men do as I say, and Quinn shakes as she fills the trashcan. When the guns are gone, they all wonder what’s stopping them from killing me with their bare hands, then find themselves frozen in place. Taking the trashcan, I give Quinn a handful of cash from it, and tell her to hit the road.

            “You go on too, sweetheart,” says the man who had the knife. “We’ll find your stupid mutie ass and make you hurt. Don’t worry.”

            I don’t acknowledge having heard him. “Where’s the rest of the crack?”

            Three men know.

            “Take me to it. The rest of you get lost.”

            The sun is rising when I return to the house on Redwood Drive. The woman and her daughter have fallen asleep in the daughter’s bed, so I knock on the bedroom door. She opens it, the gun from the nightstand in one hand. “Yes?”

            I push a cereal box against her chest. “There’s ten thousand dollars in there. Move north, and if any of them are stupid enough to come for you, you call me again, I don’t care where you’re living when you do.”

            The woman stares at me like I’ve sprouted horns then rips open the cereal box. “Your twenty.”

            I try not to laugh. “Don’t worry, I’ve been paid. And again,” I put my hand on the box, “if they are stupid enough to come after you, _call me_.”

            I nearly jump backward when she throws an arm around my neck and begins crying into my shoulder.

            “Thank you. _Thank_ _you.”_           

            Her daughter stirs, and I push her off me and take the gun. The safety’s still on. I hand it back.

 

            Wade is holding the cereal bag in his fist when I return home. “Where’s the box?”

            “I have a new job for you.” I take the collection of ID’s out of my pocket and hand them to him. “Visit each of these model citizens and make sure they’re skipping town like I told them too. If not, remind them you’re going to kill them after midnight- call Toby and see if he’s willing to help you make the rounds; I’ll write him a new check.”

            Wade sets his cereal bag on the counter. “Chestnut? Ol’ Donald Duck? You want me to intimidate these guys?”

            “You know them?”

            “Yeah, they’re only the druglords of [insert crappy suburban area here]. I mean, we don’t share inside jokes or anything. I don’t think they know who _I_ am-”

            “Well, then make them know you,” I get out the milk and two bowls. “Client called last night needing her boyfriend to stop beating on her, and I ended up extorting the entire drug ring he works for. Also, that trashcan’s filled with guns, pick out any you like.”

            “You stole guns for me? You’re so thoughtful.” Wade gets the spoons and the gallon jar of sugar out of the cabinet.

            “That’s not sugar,” I say.

            “Of course it is I refill it every week.”

            I point to the salt and pepper shakers that look like a pair of boobs. “Salt shaker has sugar in it until I find another big jar. The rest is just sitting in a bread bag right now. Alternately, would you like French toast?”

            “Is it like a French kiss, but with- Yes, okay, I would love French toast.”

            I put the flyswatter back on its hook.

            “What’s in the sugar jar if it is not sugar, my little peanut marzipan?”

            I take the plate of drying bread and a carton of eggs out of the fridge. “I just put a smalltime crack dealer out of business, what do you think? I didn’t have time to get rid of it all.”

            He says something stupid about how we might get rid of it, and I ignore him. When he’s gone on his new errand I massage my neck where the woman’s bare arm pressed against it. I need her feelings to go away.

            Wade’s guests lounge around the room, drinking, swearing, and smoking. Competitions have started up again over whose car is faster and whose girlfriend is looser. Women drink more than the men to prove they can, men make crasser jokes than the women to prove they can. I dislike most of these people.

            Except for George who’s sitting right next to me describing how best to rob a bank. He balances his beer can on his crossed leg. “It’s lucrative, especially where the celebrities bank. Think you’d ever try it?”

            “Oh, I have,” I suppose that stint of mine during the recession counts as bank robbery, “but Wade would rather get paid for doing something fun than have to steal money.”

            “That’s right, that’s right.” George scratches his knee. “Wade’s a great guy and all, but there’s only so much of him you can take. He’s…well you know.”

            I roll my eyes and he shrugs a shoulder.

            “You’re the one we come here for.” He leans over the arm of his chair. “You’re easy to be around. This is coming from a guy you once knocked in the head for arms dealing in Cameroon.”

            I squint and act like I don’t know what he means.

            “Weren’t you an Avenger?”

            I laugh shortly. “No. That would be pretty weird. Are there even women in that group?”

            He accepts his mistake and leans back. “There were at least two when I tangled with ‘em.”

            Our conversation fizzles, and we listen to others around us. Someone asks my opinion on something, I reply sarcastically, and get empty laughs in return. George leans across his armrest again.

            “If you’re up for it, I’d love to show you something in one of these empty rooms you got here.”

            His voice is as monotone as ever, but his thoughts are intense. I keep my expression flat. “No, I’m not up for that.”

            He accepts this calmly too. “Because you’re with Wade?”

            I straighten my slouch. “Mhm.”

            “Okay. I just wasn’t sure if you were.”

            The subject drops, and he joins a conversation with the group next to him. I look from him, to Toby, to two other friends of Wade’s including a woman. They’ve all asked for the same, something they must trade as freely as cigarettes- or for cigarettes. George is the first to assume I’m with Wade.

            I watch as Wade grows rowdier and rowdier. His guests are used to him, but fights have broken out before. When the time is right, I take him into the hallway.

            “Right now.”

            “Right now?”

            Pulling on the drawstring of his sweatpants, I lead him down the hall to the extra office, the one we use for storage. It’s ugly, warm, has a concrete floor, and a clean mattress in a secluded corner. As soon as we’re inside I bolt the door and take off his mask. Immediately, he starts kissing me, and I taste oranges on his damaged lips.

            “Is this happening now,” he pulls away for a second, “are we doing this? Should I stop asking and just-”

            I lead us the rest of the way.

            He takes off his clothes, I take off mine. His scar tissue is soft and pale like freshly shed snake skin, but the muscle underneath is solid except where it’s marred by cancer. The extent of his cancer means he’s permanently in pain, and there’s nothing I can do except be gentle and not acknowledge how disturbing he looks and feels.

            Then he’s done. It’s over, and all I want is to stretch my legs and take a shower. He wraps one arm around me and kisses me hotly on the cheek. “Are you going to be here when I wake up?”

            “Why wouldn’t I be?”

            “No reason- no, no reason, just- I don’t even know why I asked. Doesn’t matter.” He kisses the top of my head and squeezes me.

            “Wade, have other women left before morning?”

            “No,” he lies.

            I let him hold onto me for a few seconds more before slipping out of his grasp. “You’ve got guests to entertain. Get dressed.”

            “Did you like it though? I mean, I think we did fantastic-”

            “Wade.”

            “Right, getting dressed.”

            I finish dressing and pull my hair back. “I’m not going to leave you, Wade.”

            “Good, I mean, whatever you want. I love…having you around.” He holds his shirt in one hand as he pats my backside with his other. “Whatever you want.”

            I don’t want anything. I don’t have wants. I just have you.


	81. Chapter 81

            I’ve been staring at the date on my desktop for several seconds when Weasel looks up from his keyboard.

            “Your, uh, thing you did is in the news again.”

            Blinking, I meet his gaze. “What?”

            “They still think you’re a group, but they’ve figured out you’re enhanced or something-”

            “Weasel, why do you care whether or not what I do makes the news?”

            He swallows.

            “A couple months ago you were ready to leave, so why’re you still here?”

            He pushes his glasses up and scratches his measly beard. “I don’t- It’s Al, I don’t want to leave Al here.”

            I look at his new laptop. “You wouldn’t happen to like the money, would you?”

            Licking his lips, he nods.

            “Then don’t get nervous about where the money comes from. If you don’t like it, I’ll convince Al to leave, and you two can start a pig farm in Nebraska.”

            “Ace, it’s not the kind of work you do it’s the extent…of it. I mean, I could bring a Fortune 500 company to its knees overnight, but the worst that would happen is I’d have to relocate to another country. You send a company into a nosedive and people commit suicide. That’s too far for a few million dollars. Way too far.”

            It was nearly a billion, but only I know that. “I’m not the one who blew my brains out over money. To me, that’s too far. I don’t do this for the money, Weas.”

            “What then, the thrill of being a psychopath? I want to know how an intelligent woman like you wakes up one day and thinks, ‘I know, murder. I know, Wade Wilson.’ It makes no sense.”

            It’s September, it should make perfect sense, but the last person I’m going to explain this to is Wade’s whipping boy. “Weas, why don’t you just go home. Go home and watch that robot show you’re always talking about.”

            Angry, but more fearful of me than of Wade, he packs up his equipment. “Look, if you convince Al to leave, I’ll work here another couple months for free. I swear.”

            He doesn’t trust me around Al either. I wait until I hear his new Kia pull away before checking the date again. I’ve severely lost track of time.

            Since dismantling that crack ring, calls have been pouring in asking us to break up everything from street gangs to political parties. Even the drug ring that replaced the crack dealers tried hiring us to protect their stock. I declined and told Wade there was no profit in it.

            My hands shake as I empty the back of the borrowed van, and I blame it on lack of sleep. Wade joked that I take as many sleeping pills as he takes pain pills. The last box slips out of my grip, and I let it so I can sit down for a second. Grief is countered with rage until I’m too tired to feel either. I try to remember where I last saw my burner phone.

            The noise of Wade’s return distracts me from the siren song of self-pity. He took an old sidekick of his called Bob out on a minor errand, and now they’ve returned wearing pirate hats. Wade looks proud of himself, but Bob squints at me.

            “Are you sick?”

            “She doesn’t get sick, _Bob.”_ Wade closes up the back of the van. “We don’t pay you for your medical opinions. Now drive.”

            Wade and I teleport to the defunct theater company to make sure no lurkers or federal agents  are there to meet us, then sit by the delivery entrance and wait for Bob.

            “I put the ‘fun’ in ‘funeral,’ the ‘laughter’ in ‘manslaughter,’ and the...crap, I forgot the last part.”

            I sigh. “The ‘hot’ in ‘psychotic.’”

            He points both barrels at me. “That was a test. You really are a great listener.”

            “Wade, put those away, there’s no one here.”

            Empty and with an intellectually challenged driver at the helm, the van bounces into the parking lot. The headlights bear down on us and Wade jumps out of the way.

            “Thanks for almost running us over, _Bob_ ,” Wade hisses once the driver exits the vehicle. Bob just hangs his head and shuts the door.

            Wade snatches the keys from him, and hands him a flashlight.

            Backstage, costume pieces lay scattered across the floor. I bend down and brush some of the costume material aside. The beam from Wade’s flashlight spills over the large crates of stolen goods, right where the client said they’d be.

            “There you are,” Wade croons as he flips the flashlight in his hand. Bob flips his as well and it crashes onto the concrete floor.

            “God, Karen, you are so stupid!” Wade reaches back and smacks him, then looks at me guiltily.

            “I saw.”

            Wade pats Bob kindly on the head as Bob sheepishly scours the floor for the deadened flashlight.

            There, I thought I saw that. A gray, polymer mask with eyeholes crudely cut into it like the maker was in a rush. Fabric lining for comfort and rubber edges to hold it to a person’s face. I try it on just to test that theory.

            Bob gets his flashlight working again and promptly flashes himself in the eyes. Blinking he staggers back into a clothes rack, and together both go down.

            “Goddamnit, Bob,” I peel off the mask. “Get up.”

            Bob flails in a nest of feathered boas and false ermine muffs as Wade climbs atop the crates and swings the crowbar high while holding the flashlight vertically in his mouth, vulgarly chuckling to himself. I roll my eyes, pocket the mask, and continue sorting through the materials on the floor.

            Back at home base, I piece my finds together along with scraps of ruined suits Wade and I have amassed. Attaching the cowl from an old hoodie, I sew black nylon around the insides of the eyeholes. Turning the mask over in my hands, its ghoulish eyes stare up at me from a leathery gray face. The swollen nose I sliced off and backed with nylon, and in trying to alter the leering grin I made the lips ripple and droop.

            Taking up the nearest hunting knife, I cut my hair short reducing the static cling caused by this dry climate. Additionally my hair can no longer get caught, burned, grabbed, or obscure my vision. Why it took me seventy years to make this decision is a mystery.

            Putting on the mask and cowl, I look in the mirror. A marred, sorrowful creature stares back at me, put out of its misery far too late and reduced to a barbaric token. It does not feel like a mask.

 

            Some jobs require more finesse than others, and when they do I leave Wade behind. This particular job has taken three weeks to stage. All it needed was a mask.

            I stroll through the lobby of a modest company headquarters, empty thanks to a series of unfortunate events. When the computer mainframe suffered a viral attack of unknown origin, the company agreed to a buyout by my client. Before the papers are signed I must steal the confidential data my client wants and make it look like a malicious third-party is at fault. Thus, for the first time since returning to Earth, I let myself be caught on camera.

            I’ve only just sat down to work when through the winds of a blustery Arizona autumn I hear someone exit the building from the ground floor. Further investigation finds a utility van parked in the staff lot at the back of the building. Two men wait there for the one that exited the building, and hastily remove themselves to the back of the van. I smell nitroglycerin.

            “So, this looks like fun.”

            Two men stop cold while one raises his gun at me.

            “Relax, neither of us is supposed to be here.” I gesture to the mechanism in the bearded guy’s hand. “I just need to know if that’s going to impede my work.”

            “Which is?” asks the man to my left.

            “Computers.” I nod at the building. “It’ll take me another ten minutes, tops.”

            The speaker of the group forms his mouth into a grim line. “How much time on the clock?”

            “Fifteen minutes,” says the bearded man.

            The speaker nods curtly at me. “As long as you aren’t SHIELD or SWAT, do whatever the hell you want.”

            I smile within the mask like Wade would, knowing it doesn’t translate the same. “SHIELD was looking pretty pathetic last time I saw them.”

            “You ex-Hydra?”

            I pause and look from man to man. Of course, it stands to reason if some of my colleagues were once prisoners of SHIELD, some may also be Hydra. “Are you?”

            Two of them chuckle and the sound offends me.

            I flick my hand sideways and the gun aimed at me takes out the man to my left. Logically this attracts more firearms and the second man dies as well. The last lunges for me, furious enough that I actually take a step back. This isn’t right. He’s fought too hard to get this far. He is not ready to die.

            Neither was Vince. Life sucks that way.

            His death is quick. I do what I came for, put each man back in the utility van, and take away all their guns. The security cams I just waltzed past will survive this blast somehow. I won’t get away with this somehow.

            Inside, I crawl under a table pushed against a wall. Pressing myself into the corner, I hold the paper bag of guns against my chest. It’s quiet under here, away from the light. I can’t tell if all this is poetic or perverse.  

            The room shakes, objects fall, and then the floor disappears from beneath me. Oxygen is sucked from my lungs as my stomach rises into my throat. I become enveloped in dust, pummeled by ceiling tiles as sharp rubble below braces to break my fall.

            “I’m thinking of moving back to San Fran.”

            I open my eyes. The guns lay dismantled on the coffee table.

            “And now they’ve got that sinking tower, it’s like they’re begging me to come back.”

            Concrete didn’t shatter my skull like I thought it would, but did crush other bones. I was centimeters away from having a steel rebar through my head, having watched its length shoot past my eye before blacking out. I run my fingers through my hair from the front and then from the back.

            “You want I should trim it?” Wade whips out a knife. “It’s longer on one side than the other.”

            “You said you liked it long.”

            “You said you liked it short.” He points the knife at his crotch. “Doesn’t mean an adjustment wouldn’t be appreciated.”

            I chuckle and stop playing with my hair. “Take me to bed, big guy.”

            It’s not always as bad as the first time. Imagining he’s Vince makes it easier. So far I haven’t made the sitcom mistake of yelling the wrong name- not like he gives me a reason to- and besides, he likes the way I treat him when I’m pretending.

            “Why are you such a good woman?”

            The question catches me off guard. “Why are you so good to me?”

            He kisses my neck loudly. “How can I not be? Something just feels right about you. Like, I’ve finally got a chance to be a good guy because of you.”

            I should’ve left him, should’ve taken my money and Al with me. “Do it because you want it for you. I’m not that great.”

            “I think you’re awesome. You’re like-”

            “You have somewhere to be right now.” I push him off me. “Get going.”

            Once he’s dressed and gone, I gradually slide to the floor. Soon gunshots echo down the hall from the TV as Wade dawdles. The collector’s edition wall clock says it’s only 2am, so I save my self-pity and head to the kitchen. Al’s at the table, as usual, listening to her tablet in one ear as she sits at the table. There’s a quart of leftover salsa in the fridge and three open bags of chips on the table, so I make myself comfortable.

            “Did he tell you?”

            Sighing, I push the crinkly tortilla chip bag away. “Tell me what?”

            “Wade thinks you’ll help him turn a new leaf, thinks you’re the answer to all his problems.” Al’s brows dip behind her glasses. “You’ve been here five months. What do you want from him?”

            “Are you unhappy, Al?”

            “Don’t try that with me. You can spin the other two jokers around in circles, but my equilibrium is fine. I want to know if you actually care about that boy, or if you only stick around for your own benefit.”

            There’s no one as lowly as Blind Al who is also as intelligent as Blind Al. She can do nothing for me or against me. “Al. My husband died two years ago yesterday.”

            I watch realization dawn on her before succumbing to disappointment. “I see. Wade’s just a wild ride to take your mind off things.”

            Hearing it stated makes me cringe. “When he told me about Vanessa I assumed-”

            “That you were just for fun too? That you could both be selfish together and he’d understand? Were he any other male dumbass, you’d be right, but he ain’t. Did you know Vanessa was a prostitute? He fell in love with a hooker. He’d fall in love with a damn toothbrush if it told him it loved him. He’s desperate.”

            I close my eyes and swallow hard, expletives cavorting inside my head.

            “So?” Al puts her tablet to sleep. “What do you do now, leave? That’s all you can do-”

            “I bought you a house, Al.” The statement is sucked dry of emotion. “It’s in the middle of the country next to a casino. Wade doesn’t know about it yet, but that’s between you and him. Weas says he’ll stay on longer if you leave, but he’s not leaving until you do.”

            Al contemplates this. “Thought you needed him for your money schemes.”

            “I have money. You both want to leave, I won’t stop you.” I start clearing the table. “There’s an account full of money in your name-”

            “This husband of yours,” Al leans back in her chair, “was he young?”

            I look at her sideways.

            “I can’t tell how old you are from your voice. Was he young?”

            I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth. “He was twenty-three.”

            She doesn’t say anything else, so I take the opportunity to get the hell out of there.

            My heart is tightening. An overripe orange pressed between two boards, separating the meat from the rind, mangling the fragile flesh inside until there’s a quiet burst of air as the rind splits. I gasp after holding my breath for so long. My body shakes, and my eyes burn like acid in a wound. The crushing continues, and I press my fingertips to my palm, pulling the skin, then pressing and pulling again. This only causes my hands to shake more, my shoulders to creak, my lungs to shrink, each gasp meeker than the last.

            Dawn breaks over the city, and from the roof I watch the sun rise slowly on the smoggy horizon. The sun rises, the city moves. Wade went to work, I hear Al packing, and Weasel parks out front. I ignore the first three times he calls me until Al tells him why she’s packing, then head downstairs on my own.

            “Ace, were you in Arizona yesterday?”

            The man spends too much time online. “Why?”

            “There was some terrorist attack down there and they’re showing footage of someone wearing that mask you made. Were you paid for this?”

            “It wasn’t me.” I yawn. “I loaned that mask out to a third party for a hack job- sorry, no cut. I didn’t think they’d blow the place though, it’s not their style.”

            “Huh. Well, they’re calling the masked man the Somerton bomber after the town if you want to look it up yourself. Another outlet said Somerton ‘killer’ because there were three dead guys in the parking lot, but that got connected to some old conspiracy theory. It’s all just weird.”

            “They ID the bodies?”

            “No, not yet anyway.” He runs his fingers over the strap of his laptop bag and clears his throat. “Does Wade know Al’s moving?”

            “Don’t know, Weas,” I snap. “Why don’t you ask her?”

            In the bedroom, my bedroom, I dig around until I find the burner phone. No service, dead battery. I found a gun and my other phone in the process, and now I place them on the floor beside each other.

            Clint doesn’t want to hear from me, and if he thought I should be in prison before I can’t disagree with him now. Bridge burnt.

            Yesterday I woke up in the rubble of a demolished building. I may have simply been unconscious, or I might have been “dead.” My brain had been turned off in a way sleep could never achieve.

            I pick up both objects; the gun and the phone. I call Clint and while it rings, check to see if the gun is loaded. Brain matter does not heal like bone and tissue. Would a bullet put me down or leave me irreparably damaged?

            The phone picks up and I nearly pull the trigger.

            “Hello?”   

            I don’t respond. I don’t know why I called.

            “Hello? Ace?”

            I put the gun down, but keep touching it.

            “If it’s you-” Clint pauses. “Maybe you can’t hear me. Hang on.”

            “Don’t,” I blurt. “Don’t leave.”

            He doesn’t. “How are you holding up?”

            “Okay… No, I lied, I’ve been awful.”

            There’s a long sigh. “I was afraid I wouldn’t hear from you this month.”

            I see my hand on the gun, and my flesh crawls. Hulk didn’t drag me out of that lake for this. The weapon skids across the floor.

            “I’m sorry,” Clint says. “I’m sorry I made you feel you had to leave. We miss you. What can I do to make you come back?”

            “You didn’t make me leave.” What can he do? “I- I kept waiting for him to come back.”

            “I know.” His voice has that low, cold sound like a pebble’s caught in his throat. “I know I can’t fix that.”

            I close my eyes and wipe them. “Nothing makes sense anymore. I don’t- I don’t know why I do things, if it’s the grief or if I’m losing it, or- I feel nothing and then I feel everything, and depression used to be like that for me, but I never did the things I’m doing now to take the edge off. Grief makes me sick in the head and now I’m acting so weird I don’t even know myself, I don’t know if I am myself or if I should be someone else. I don’t- I don’t know. I don’t know.”

            That’s more than I’ve spoken to anyone in months. No one wants to be the recipient of my emotional crap, especially not Clint who’s been through this before.

            “What kinds of things have you been doing to take the edge off?” Clint’s tone is undemanding. “You know I won’t rag on you.”

            What haven’t I done? What is he hoping I won’t say? Which of mine is the lesser sin? “I…I’m living with someone. A man. I thought I was moving on, but I just…wanted to screw around I guess.”

            Clint’s quiet for a second. “Did it help?”

            “No.” I take a deep breath that turns into a yawn.

            “Then come home,” he says matter-of-factly. “If it isn’t serious just come home.”

            “I don’t…I don’t want to do that…to him.” I pull my knees up to my chest. “He lost someone too. We don’t really talk about it, but…I think he needs the distraction too.”

            “Ace,” there’s a half-sigh like he’s out of his depth, “it’s okay to be with someone else right now, but you aren’t anyone’s distraction. If he isn’t serious and you’re miserable you should be at home with family. Alright? We’re your family. You don’t deserve to be with some guy who just wants a shoulder to cry on when you’re the one crying. Come home.”

            I have three distinct emotions lately; apathy, sorrow, and rage. At the moment I’m fighting the urge to throw the phone across the room. “I didn’t call to be commanded, Clint. This is my life; if I’m going to screw it up I will screw it up without anyone else’s input. This guy is my business, and if he only wanted pity you know I wouldn’t be with him. I call you because you’re _my_ shoulder to cry on even though I know you hate it- I’d hate it too. Don’t worry, I’ll stop crying and man up.”

            “Ace, do not hang up the phone. No, he’s not my business,” he says begrudgingly, “frankly, I don’t care who you date I’d feel sorry for the guy either way. I’m pissed that you cut me off, that you’re out there all by yourself pretending we don’t exist. Just…” His tirade halts. “Look, I don’t hate being your listening ear. I hate not knowing if you’re still alive- healing factor or not. You scared the shit out of us when you took off like that.”

            I glance at the gun across the room and know he’s right. “I’m fine now, Clint. Thank you for everything you are. I’ve never done anything for you that’s worth your friendship.”

            His response I don’t hear while recalling one my last arguments with Vince. I’d do anything just to argue with him right now, just to have him in the same room yelling at me for some selfish, crappy thing I did. I couldn’t fight back. I’d deserve it for all the times I hurt him.

            “Ace? Did you hear me?”

            “I miss you too, Clint. I can’t come home though. If I can’t handle saving the world, I can at least take care of this guy. I love you.”

            Heavy sigh. “Then can you turn on your phone again? This one’s restricted.”

            “Yeah. Hug your wife and babies for me. I’ll call you again tomorrow.”

            “Don’t forget what I said about Vince. He’d want to know you’re safe. Stay safe.”

            “I am. I’ll take care of myself.”

            We say a few more things before hanging up. I scratch my neck and wonder if I meant what I said about Wade. With Al gone, it’ll be just me to support the violent toddler. He won’t improve, I can’t make him good. I can only give myself a purpose. Vince wouldn’t want to know if I was safe from myself, he’d want to know if I still had purpose. If I’m forced to keep living despite everyone falling around me, I will not live in vain. I will make purpose.


	82. Chapter 82

            When I was ten I didn’t live on Earth. I lived on a planet in a system in a galaxy the names of which I cannot spell in any Earth language. The people I was raised by were not superheroes, they were peacekeepers, ambassadors. When trouble arose on another planet we were dispatched to make sure the problem was resolved peacefully. I learned early on that people do not want peace. They want solutions, and the only way to achieve solutions is through violence.

            There’s pounding at the door, blood in the sheets, and an incensed hitman standing over the bed.

            “Wrong room, dickhead.”

            “It’s not my fault you don’t sleep in the same bed.”

            “It’s not my fault your aim is shit.” I hold my hand to my shoulder. The bullet passed through, missing the bone and kissing the wall.

            “It’s not my fault you sat up,” the guy retorts. “So where is he?”

            “Stop yelling,” I hiss, “the noise at the door is cops, if you haven’t noticed.”

            He points the gun at his dark complexion and raises a dense eyebrow. “You think I’m opening the door for LAPD?”

            “You just shot a woman in her sleep, I think their reaction would be justified.” I jerk my shirt on correctly. “Deadpool sleeps two over, but he knows you’re here now.”

            “Deadpool? He’s here too?”

            The cops are starting to get on my nerves. A bright pink bathrobe- Wade’s, not mine- covers the bloody mess as I race for the door. I can make them leave, I can’t make them forget.

            “There was nothing here, it was a prank call, you’ll leave now.”

            I close the door on their backs. The hitman stands in the hallway with his feet spread apart. “Where’s the Somerton guy?”

            “The whatta?” I ask.

            “The mask dude. And Deadpool ain’t back there, there’s no one else here.”

            “Whatever, you’ve got the wrong house.” I point to the back door he broke in through. “I hope the cops still catch you.”

            We have replacements for everything in this house. The door, the sheets, my clothes, all replaceable. The hole in the wall can be filled in, the blood on the floor and surfaces I touched can all be cleaned. While the washing machine chugs away, I splash bleach over the kitchen floor and scrub. Other parts of the house are paler than they once were, but not bloody. Damn, my standards are low.

            Someone’s fiddling at the broken back door that I forced shut and blockaded. It’s just Wade, so I ignore it. He doesn’t even tell me where he goes, why should I care when he returns. Giving up on the door, I hear him move around the side of the house. The garage door slams, accenting a storm of cursing. I continue what I’m doing. The door to the laundry room slams, and the swearing does not let up.

            _“Woman.”_

            I sit ramrod straight and look to the laundry room. “What’s wrong?”

            “Come here.”

            Quietly, I put down the scrub brush and cap the bottle of bleach. I don’t waste his time by walking slowly, but make sure to appear calmer than ever. He’s faster than me, stronger than me, armed, and I’ve already tried using telepathic commands on him- his brain rejects them after a couple seconds.

            These thoughts flash through my head as I enter the laundry room, as though I’ve prepared for this moment. There’s only so long you can trust a violent man. Just look at Logan.

            Wade leans back against the industrial washer in the corner, suit burnt, melted, broken, and just barely holding onto him. This is not unusual. What is unusual is he’s not wearing his mask. He gestures for me to come closer, but moves before I can. He crowds me, bumps my shoulder into the wall, and cups his hand around my neck to lift my chin. As he stares into my face, I keep one leg firmly in his way, ready to phase if he so much as breathes wrong. He glares down at me.

            “Why are you so damn cute?”

            Anxiety sloughs off me, leaving me drained and acutely disappointed. Violence would have required something new on my part.

            “C’mon.” I take him by the arm and lead us to his bedroom.

            Wade is like a mythological creature. He has the body of a man, the mind of a psychopath, and the heart of a child. Thankfully, he doesn’t use his mind too often; unfortunately, he doesn’t use his heart often either.

            I curl into the freshly washed sheets of his bed, the only part of his room that’s clean. He runs his deadly hands through my short hair and kisses me full on the mouth. I wait it out, let him finish, then ask. “Where were you?”

            “On a job.”

            “And yesterday?”

            “Another job.”

            Hits. I press my lips together and say nothing. We kiss again, and he pries me apart so his arms can go around me and his mouth can roam.

            “Wade,” I breathe into his neck when his lips move south, “I’m not going anywhere, slow down.”

            “You slow down,” he mumbles against my shoulder.

            Carefully, I brush my fingers over the impermanent topography of his neck. As he moves lower on my body, so my fingers travel over his skull where his skin feels least damaged. I inhale sharply as he kisses me somewhere only Vince would. He sighs.

            “I’m going to make this up to you,” he says breathlessly, “I mean it, I love-”

            “Stop, saying that.” I hesitate then sit up. “Look, if this is going to work you have to change some things.”

            “I know, A-baby, I washed the sheets.”

            “No- dummy- you have to stop telling me you love me. You only say it when you’re getting something out of me, that’s not love. And you’ve got to stop telling people our address, that’s the third guy I’ve sent packing this month. Did you tell someone about Arizona?”

            “Are you kidding? Of course not. I only mentioned the Tamale Festival they’re having in-”

            “Somerton. Dammit, Wade. This is why-” I groan in frustration. “This is why Al had to leave, do you understand? Your place isn’t off-limits anymore, people know you’ve got money and they’d hurt Al to get it.”

            “They can hurt her in her new place too, but if you tell me where it is I can-”

            “Tell everyone, yes, see the problem there?”

            “I wouldn’t blab, I don’t blab, I know how to control my tongue, and if you’d let me show you some other things my tongue-”

            I throw back the covers. “You’re a joke, Wade. A sad punchline.”

            “What- C’mon,” he calls as I leave the room. “Sleeping in your own bed is how you got shot, remember?”

            I slam my bedroom door, hoping he does something about it, waiting for a heavy tread to come down the hall. I lie awake, listening as he mutters himself to sleep.

            At age eleven, overlooked and underestimated, I already knew how easy people were to manipulate. Whole populations could be turned on each other over the smallest things, rebellions stifled or enflamed by singular acts of brutality. Every planet, every race was the same. The same individuals rose to power, the same scapegoats lost their heads, the same citizens demanded justice and received suffering. Among them all there were few I cared about, and even fewer I wanted to succeed.

            “Why did he do it?” Clint asks. “Why didn’t he go to the tower?”

            “He wanted to be a hero, didn’t he?” I pick lint off my shirt and throw it at the pavement. "Wanted to prove himself, wanted to be a man, to push back at whatever pushed him. He thought he got it from his dad, but dad was a coward. Mom’s the one who kicked him out.”

            Clint doesn’t disagree with this philosophy as he sinks his nose into his scarf. I made him speak with me outdoors. People don’t have time to stop and recognize you when they’re rushing somewhere warm. He takes another gulp of coffee and sighs.

            “He loved you though. That’s more than you can say for this loser.”

            I take a good long look at him. “Don’t tell me you were an exciting catch when Laura first met you.”

            He chuckles in surprise. “What? You kidding? I was cute. She was cuter, but I was…okay.”

            “Have you been able to see them since the breakout?”

            He squeezes my arm. “We’re here about you.”

            “Oh. Right.” I squint at the snow covered town. “Is that Cap’s tactic? Don’t tell Ace shit because she’s no longer a club member?”

            “Hey, stop that.” He bats my arm with the back of his gloved hand. “I just can’t tell you some things, alright? Besides, I still don’t know what this moron boyfriend’s name is.”  

            Boyfriend. As if. “Wade.”

            “Wade. Wade the burn victim. Burnt where?”

            I kick him and he coughs on his coffee. “Everywhere. Head to toe.”

            Clint swears flatly. “You said he has a faster healing factor. Your scars healed, why didn’t his?”

            I shrug. “Never asked.”

            “Why not?”

            “I, just- That’s not the kind of relationship we have.”

            “What, the kind where you tell each other things?” He scrutinizes me.

            “He knows who I am. He figured it out in like two seconds.”

            Clint rubs his eyes. “Can he keep a secret?”

            “Nope.” I smirk. “I threatened him not to tell that one though. So far it’s worked.”

            “See, this is why I can’t tell you things. Your boy-toy’s a liability.”

            I drop my hand in resignation. “Fine. If you see the big man slap him on the ass for me will you? I’ve forgotten what it looks like.”

            Clint’s laughter turns to coughing again, the cold air and coffee not doing his throat any favors. “I’m tell- telling him you said that.”

            Smiling, I nudge his leg and look again at the town. “You’re not hiding out here, are you?”

            He looks at me sideways like he’s about to make a bad joke. “Where are you hiding out?”

            Arching my brow, I take his coffee and drink from it.

            As a teenager, I let Xavier mold me into believing that despite people and chaos, it could all go well. I really could have something close to an ideal life if I just believed hard enough. Had he ever woken up from that coma his favorite pupil put him into, he’d still tell me to believe.

            “I’m moving out, Wade.”         

            “Sure, alright, but- no, go for it, I’m fine.”

            “No you’re not. Tell me the truth.”

            “I don’t know what it is. Don’t leave! There, I said the truth.”

            I sit down against the wall and hold my head in my hands. “Wade, baby, I don’t care. If this is going to work…I can’t take care of you. I’m not a hero, Wade. I’m not a good person. I don’t know what made you think that.”

            “What are you talking about? You stop me from doing all kinds of bad things.”

            “Then ask yourself, Wade, why am I with you? If I’m so good why did I quit the Big Leagues when they needed me most?”

            “Cuz, you’re worn out.” He rocks back on his heel. “I figure if you can tolerate me, the rest of your life has been pretty chaotic up till this point. And you think I’m sex on a stick.”

            I roll my eyes. “You’ve got one voice in your head that’s an absolute moron; ignore that one and you’ll be fine.”

            “Wait, you can hear them? Or is it just those quirky moments when I talk out loud to them?” He crouches in front of me, mask on. “Lonnie left that crate of glorified grape juice here. Let’s have a Nancy Meyers night, and tomorrow we can make some cork arts and crafts.”

            He pulls me to my feet, babbling happily, hoping I’ll forget that a minute ago I wanted to move out. When he can’t find a corkscrew, Wade lops the heads off several wine bottles and pours them into Big Gulp cups. When I don’t take it, he closes my hands around it and sits at the other end of the couch.

            “So, you think you’re a bad guy? You’ll lose this contest, but I’ll let you go first.” He lifts his mask to take a drink, sticking out his tongue at the flavor. “What’ve you ever done that’s ‘bad’ besides burst from hell and disrupt my life? And don’t say ‘killed a bunch of Hydra goons’ because we’ve already decided that doesn’t count.”

            “Murder of any kind counts,” I say, taking a drink as well. “If there’s a god I bet he even counts dead flies and mice against us. Spiders, we’re all going to hell for killing spiders.”

            “See, that’s something I didn’t know about you.” He rests his chin in his palms. “You’re a caustic.”

            “I am, but I think you mean agnostic.”

            We pause to drink.

            “Are you?”

            Passing headlights ghost through the room and disappear. “Sometimes. Sometimes I’m sure there’s a god, and other times…not so much.”

            “Oh, this is getting deep. Keep talking.”

            “You hate deep.”

            “It’s sexy when you talk it though.”

            More drinking. I squint at the front windows as headlights pass by again. “You want to know the first bad thing I did? Inexcusably bad, like, out of malice.”

            He nods eagerly.

            I shift on the couch, take a drink straight from the bottle, and smack my lips. “I blew up a testing facility when I was nine. They experimented on mutants there and I just,” I shrug, “blew it up. People and all.”

            “What the hell, that was you? I broke an arm in that explosion.”

            “Whose?”

            “Yours, your explosion.”

            “No, whose arm?”

            “Oh, mine.”

            “Just when I think I know how your brain works.” I take another drink and bend my brow. “Wait, no you weren’t there. This was the eighties, weren’t you stealing candy or something?”

            “Oh. Then no it was a different explosion later. And it might not have been my arm, it might have been all of me.” He cocks his head to one side. “I’m really remembering the arm though.”

            I press my lips to the bottle and try to stay awake. “Is that…is that when you got burned?”

            “Burn,” he shouts. “Need some aloe vera? cuz’ you just got burned.” He laughs, talks to himself, and lies back in the pillows patting his chest. “Lie down right here, come on, don’t be shy.”

            I tilt my head to the side and glance at the bottles next to the couch. What good are empty wine bottles? They need, wine.

            The bottle in my hand flies into the bottles on the floor, and the shattering sends Wade into a laughing fit.

            "Not so loud,” I yell and press my face into the cushions. “It’s three bottles.”

            “What? I can’t hear you over these guys- shut up- say it louder.”

            “Three.” I shout. The room has become small and the sound bounces back and hits me upside the head. I groan and pull my knees up. “Three bottles of wine gets me drunk.”

            Wade hangs his head off the end of the couch. “I see a lot more than three, cutie patootie. I see like a dozen twenty. Twenty dozen. I see five.”

            I rub my hands up and down over my face and through my hair. “Get over here and kiss me.”

            He moves so fast I don’t even know what I asked, and kisses me wetly on the cheek.

            “Ugh,” I shove him, “don’t suck my face off.”

            “I love you,” he says.

            “You hate me.”

            He flops across the couch with his head in my lap.

            "You hate me.” I peel his mask off the rest of the way and run my fingers lightly over his scalp.

            “You don’t actually expect me to believe the Alkali Lake story, do you?”

            “I never expect anyone to believe it.”

            “You’re not evil, Ace.”

            “Fine. I didn’t tell you what it was called though.”

            “It’s in Canada, right? I was there, once. I didn’t get burnt there though. That was somewhere else.”

            My circulatory system is making fast work of the alcohol now that I’ve stopped downing it by the liter. “Let’s go to bed.”

            We giggle stupidly down the hall, no longer drunk on the alcohol, but pretending to be. Wade takes off his t-shirt and lies down on his stomach on the bed. With unfeeling lips I kiss his forehead, and press my ear to his back so I can listen to his heartbeat. A racehorse’s heart, ready for the next challenge to see what more it can take. It can’t understand what I’m asking for. 

            Wade flinches.

            “Sorry.” I lift my head off his aching back.

            “You’re good.”

            I kiss his shoulder, then the tip of his ear. “You’re marvelous.”

            “We all are, technically.”

            “Sure, okay.” I fold the bedcover over him. “Go to sleep, big guy.”

            He fakes a snore. “Hey, Jermaine called. You guys putting on a big show tomorrow?”

            “A magic show,” I tuck myself in beside him, “where we make an expensive amount of pharmaceuticals disappear.”

            “Oh, a pill party.” He clucks his tongue. “Am I invited?”

            “No,” I tie my hair back, “but you can stay home watching porn until I get back. Say I was with you the whole time in case anyone asks.”

            He sighs happily. “You’ll definitely be in my thoughts.”

            Xavier wasn't wrong, I had been happy. I had family, and I believed in it. It got me a husband and two best friends- Madge the only true female friend I'd ever had. I forgot the very real dangers of my childhood so I could love these people, so I could convince myself the worst had already happened. I went temporarily blind.

            The sound of gunfire jolts the new guy. I look askance at Jermaine who brought him along, and Jermaine lifts his chin. We wait until the all clear before I take the lead, adjusting the bag over my shoulder.

            The two night guards lie inside the double doors, killed by a quiet, tattooed fellow Jermaine hired. Had they been Average Joes getting a paycheck, I would've let them go with their lives. Were this your everyday pharmaceutical warehouse I wouldn't be robbing it. However, the guards and the building were affiliated with Hydra, yet for legal reasons the Avengers and the government couldn't touch them. I always had a problem with that.

            I step over the rubbish on the floor and monitor the minds working with me on this project. Not one comment, look, or ambitious notion among them. Even the new guys keep their thoughts in check. Jermaine stays in charge- this is his team, I'm just the financier- while I head for the locked room in the back.

            Phasing through the door, I leave the light off as I peruse Hydra's special selection of vaccines and serums. One locked glass cabinet shows rows of black vials, about sixty total; what's left of them.

            That one night where we ran in the rain to catch a movie, Matt slipped on the pavement, but didn't fall. Vince didn't have a hood and when I ran my fingers through his hair water squeezed out. Madge had a stash of candy hidden in that little blue purse she found at a thrift store. How oblivious we all were. How little I did to protect them from what was coming.

            I put the vial back in its slot. Mutants started disappearing that year. Xavier wouldn't put it into words, but I noticed the difference when I went out in public. I chalked it up to paranoia. We weren't alone in the universe anymore, so we behaved ourselves. Countries spoke of unity, neighbors took care of neighbors, mutants realized the greater good at stake. We had the cure, it was humanity or bust.

            The heavy bag, greased with oil and carrying ten pounds of Duraflame, acquaints itself with the lighter in my hand. Of course, it was all a façade. That fat cat in Hell's Kitchen was carving up the city, Sokovia was brewing a revolution, and Hydra thought their cake was all but made. Meanwhile, I was in love with life and- just for a minute- it loved me back.

            The light from the fire catches in every reflective surface in the room. Inhaling deeply through the mask, I listen to the vials exploding one by one inside the Plexiglas cabinet. Better late than never.


	83. Chapter 83

            The pot on the stove is pregnant with poison, and as I stir I know what I look like. On the window sill, a candy box from last October even bears a portrait of me; donned in all black with scraggled hair and a permanent snarl. I tell Wade I’m cooking vegan chili, and a pointed stare is all that’s needed to send Weasel scurrying into the backyard.

            We moved, again. Reno this time; a bawdy town where trains and buses turn out pinch-nosed gamblers, Japanese tourists, and professional transients. Before he’d decided where to go, Wade actually suggested New York City of all God-forsaken places. I laughed at him for so long he got nervous.

            “You want to set up shop in that rat’s nest?” I asked. “The place is lousy with vigilantes- they’d stop us before we got through the tunnel.”

            “Well, maybe I’d tell them I was one of them,” Wade said daringly. “Like, I came to help.”

            “I’m not moving back there,” I said, tucking my laughter into bed, “not even if you paid me.”

            I tap the spoon on the side of the pot and try to scratch my nose through the heavy kerchief. The toxins I’m experimenting with will put a certain fat-fingered CEO into a declining state of health before he finally quits it in a hospital room three months from now. He has family; a wife, two kids in college.  He has money otherwise I’d pay off their loans and give the widow a chateau in the Alps. It’s the millions he has overseas that I want, and the forced laborers in his sweatshops who will get it. Elaborate, in its own way, as all my projects are these days; involving subtle remedies like payoffs, blackmail, and telepathic suggestion. Rarely do I employ violence.

            Opening windows and doors so the kitchen can air out, I stash the brew safely away. Weasel stays outside like a cat whose tail was shut in the door, but Wade buzzes in asking to try the chili in case he likes it. I leave him in the kitchen to search every cupboard and pout.

            There’s a torn open pack of flash drives on the glass table of the patio set. Weasel lifts an eyebrow, but remains intent on his work. “Who’s the fugu for?”

            I take a folding chair and sit at the other end of the cement deck. “You if go through my search history again.”

            He chuckles darkly. “You used my email.”

            “I needed your hot girlfriend to pick it up. She was very robust. You’re welcome.”

            “I must have twenty of those by now.”

            “As many as you have ‘single Asian girls’ to chat with online.”

            His pasty ears flush, but he smiles. “Have I been catfished?”

            “Don’t know, didn’t check.” I drum the rough, sun-bleached plastic of the chair arm. Weasel keeps one ear open for me, reclaiming his position as ad lib therapist like he did for Al. He works independently these days, making his own income, only helping Wade when asked nicely. It’s made things easier between us, so sometimes I come down from my schemes and just sit by him to cool off. I no longer terrify him. I think I’d rather I did.

            “You need to get your own place,” I say, out of habit, chasing flies away with my hand. February in Nevada seems to entail cold and flies.

            “Working on it,” he announces for the first time. “An old college pal invited me to join his grassroots think tank on-” He cuts himself off.

            I glare. “On what?”

            He grinds his wisdom teeth. “On what to do when aliens attack again. Technologically speaking.”

            If I could roll my eyes back into my head. “A shoebox crammed with nerds wearing tinfoil hats. Has he been prompting you to ask me all those stupid questions about aliens, or did you come up with them yourself?”

            His shoulders slump inside his coat and his wiry neck twists. “You know, you’re the only reliable source I’m ever going to meet on what’s really out there. Least you could do is not criticize other people when they express their concerns.”

            I snort. “Until the concerns aren’t of a sexual nature, I’ll criticize all I want.”

            We go back to our separate business; he murmuring over his laptop screen, and I telling insects to land elsewhere.

            “Where would you go?” he asks, not without interest- and a dash of spite. “This can’t be your dream home.”

            My mind jumps tracks, from aliens to idylls. The farm and all its acres; bright woods and lolling hills. The Barton kids tumbling out the front door when he comes home, tripping over themselves like long-eared puppies. Little Man Nate will be walking and talking by now, roughly the size of the smallest bow they make and running chubby hands over the waxed string. Laura on her verandah, in her kitchen, or under the apples in the orchard the old owner planted, drinking tea and holding court as each tattle-tale and minor grievance is brought before her.

            “My dream home doesn’t exist,” I say. “I dream of other people’s homes filled with their tastes. I don’t have dreams of my own.”

            “So, you just want to live wherever Wade wants to live?”

            I don’t even want to live with Wade. “I have time to figure it out. Wade can come if he wants to.”

            Weasel pushes his tongue into his cheek. “You could do better.”

            I have. I lost him.    

            A mosquito falls dead from my skin.

* * *

 

            For the middle months, July through November when she and Wade were doing well, Weasel can admit to himself that he was in terror of Ace- though a terror he didn’t entirely understand. She was reasonable with him, she overpaid him, she wouldn’t let Wade hit him, and even after he found out she could hear his thoughts she still never reacted to the derisive statements he left unspoken. So he wasn’t sure what scared him, but he knew it had to do with the fact that she was apparently dating Wade…willingly.

            She could surprise him. Even after he’d tuned Wade out hours ago, she could pipe in and know exactly what was being said and even quote something Wade had said the hour previous. So the fact that she looked inattentive one night in August as she stared thoughtfully at the wall- she couldn’t possibly be contemplating the dog-eared poster of Dita Von Teese that was directly in her view- didn’t strike Weasel as unusual.

            It was the knife. The little imported skinning knife that Wade bragged was smaller than his dick. He’d noticed it lying on the end table beside the couch only now she’d gotten her hands on it and was flipping it tip to butt from the surface of the table back to her fingers, over and over, the curved handle tilting up and the blade caught flat between thumb and forefinger.   

Wade shouted- an argument had commenced between he and the ‘voices in his head’- and it made Weasel flinch. Normally, it wouldn’t, but with that knife in constant motion and that woman staring off into space, he quickly estimated his chances of survival if he ducked under the kitchen table right now.

            Wade turned away from her to look at him, asking for back-up on some point he was arguing with himself.

            The knife flew, hit the wall above the poster blade first, and sang through the paper all the way down. Dita was bisected- between the boobs no less- and Weasel chanced a glance at Ace. She looked ecstatic, and her eyes had that creepy-ass cat quality to them; slitted, focused.

            Then it just as suddenly disappeared. Her expression reverted to its normal unreadable mask. She slumped slightly, stared at the knife at the base of the wall, too bored to even retrieve it telekinetically.

            Wade never noticed. The poster hung like slum shutters until they moved.    

            Later, a different scene in a different house in L.A. Ace bracing herself on the kitchen counter, elbows bent inward and her pale inner arm facing out. She looked broken, like she’d dropped from a height and landed this way; her appearance taxed, overworked, and had he lingered much longer he could’ve sworn he saw wrinkles in her nice face. Wade was talking at her feverishly- doing nothing for her sanity- but she responded kindly, calmly, letting him think he’d solved her problem.

            Weasel slipped past them to avoid conflict himself, knowing their attitudes could flip in an instant. He’d wonder why, later on, he didn’t think to distract Wade from her.

* * *

 

            “You haven’t called in a while.”

            “That means I’m doing well.”

            “Or at least you’re not doing bad,” Clint says agreeably. “You call when you’re doing well, too.”

            I’m lying in a backyard. My backyard. Only part of this house that gets reception apparently. I bought it, the house. Wade doesn’t know, and the estate agent thinks I’m a dog breeder from Virginia. In the spirit of my new conquest, I try to think of awful small talk, terribly boring things that boring Americans say to each other. “How were the holidays?”

            Clint laughs. “They were a scream, just fantastic. We went to the Maldives and had mimosas on the beach. The kids swam with dolphins and I did some yoga. It was a scream.”

            I snicker behind my hand. “You’re a jackass.”

            “Buttface.” He sniffles. “So, wanna grab a coffee?”

            “Can’t, no time. Just calling to say I’m alive.” I run my fingers through the grass then pat the ground.

            “How’s the beefcake? Still well-done?” There’s a beat. “Sorry.”

            “He’d find that funny, actually.” He bleeds money, gives it to his growing group of “friends,” and buys and buys and buys. “He’s happy.”

            “He’s excited for Valentine’s Day, huh?”

            I sneer even though he can’t see me because I know he braces himself for the hit I can’t deliver. “I know where you live, Barton.”

            “No you don’t,” he says assuredly. “But is he making you happy? Laura gets credit for that question- yes, I told her.”

            Am I happy. Got close to throwing dishes at him, punching in the TV screen, shaving off my hair. Burnt some furniture instead, destroyed a couple guns, and got rid of any of my clothes that still had bright colors. They made me look young; naïve, feminine, exposed.

            “No.” It drops like a hammer onto stone. “No, I’m not happy. I don’t think I’m anything.” Short breath. “Angry. Mostly that.”

            A quiet while Clint picks his words. “Are you angry with him or just in general?”

            The choice makes me laugh, dry and hard like a riverbed. Everyone’s out to piss me off- the fat cats, the media, the politicians; mankind as a degenerate whole. Two days ago I forced a college professor over the stern of his own boat for assaulting his female students. It didn’t feel like enough watching him thrash around in the Gulf, too stupid to climb back aboard. I was enraged, not for his victims, but because I had to hear and feel each event when I came near him, when I touched him. He made me _listen_ to that. Ruining his life and career was a mercy compared to what I wanted- still want- to do to him.

            “I hate everything,” I say. “I hate people. I hate their voices and their smell and their music. I wouldn’t trust the average person with a houseplant let alone a child. We made a mistake in Manhattan; these people deserve to be wiped out.”

            I swallow hard.

            “And me and the kids?”

            “You know what I mean. You know you’re the only people I don’t hate, I’ve said that before.”

            “Yeah, you’ve said that before.” His voice is subdued. “Ace, however you’re living right now, stop. Get away from him if you have to, even if he’s the only thing you’re holding onto.”

            “And go where? Back to you? You’re in hiding. To the compound? I’m unwanted. To the farm? Your family didn’t deserve that then, they definitely don’t deserve it now.”

            He sighs like it hurts him. “I- Find Steve. I couldn’t tell you where he is, but Steve knows. He’s…he’s not the kind of guy that leaves you where you’re laying, y’know?”

            “No, I’m not going to _Steve_.” Last thing I need is Captain Do-Good telling me to clean up my act and make something great again. A good dose of patriotism and some righteousness in the morning with clear that nihilism right up. “I’ve got nowhere, Clint, I’ve got nothing. If I go to the school I’ll destroy it myself- I know you’d suggest that next, I know you would.”

            “I wasn’t going to say that,” he’s quick to defend, “but maybe you...forget it.”

            I’m curious as to what it was, but I also want this conversation to end and know whatever it is will just make me angrier. “I’ll meet you somewhere. Later.”

            “Fine. Don’t blow up until then.”

            Phone on my chest, I hit the ground with both fists.

 

            Wade knows by now what to expect when he asks for intimacy. Walling off my own emotions, I stir up the sections of his brain that receive pleasure and give him the time of his life. He squirms like a worm in mud, and I try to keep myself on the other side of his perverted fantasies. When he’s done, not unaware that it was all in his head, he whimpers my name like he wants to say something but can’t put his finger on it. I wait. Pushing him to the point of speechlessness is the main reason I still do this.

            “You want me, don’t you?” Uncertainty and despair clutch each child-like vowel.

            Arched over him, tightened muscles quivering to keep from brushing against him, I again see myself in image. A wild animal considering its mauled prey, a grotesque corpse, and wishing it’d tried harder for something less sickly.

            “I can kick your ass.”

            “I know.”

            I climb off him. I redress like removing table settings for a meal that was never planned. He touches my back and my muscle twitches away from him. He just wanted to touch and I could’ve even allow him that. I don’t even pretend to be human anymore.

            “It’s okay,” he says. “I don’t blame you. I really do love you.”

            “I have to go.”

            “Sure.”

            No. I mean I’m leaving. Maybe not tonight or tomorrow, but I can’t be here anymore. It’s not his body, or the voices in his head commenting on my body and my behavior. It’s not the trails of offal and gore he leaves in his wake; it’s not even the incessant, mind-numbing chatter. It’s the grating ripple of the laugh track. The falsetto of a faucet left running. Scalded coffee at the bottom of the pot. Damp towels after a shower, water sloshing in the shampoo, gelatinous milk, mildewed laundry, greasy doorknobs, lost remotes, bottle caps on every surface, and the quiet stretching of upholstery each time he sits on the sofa.

            When I see him again it’s clear Weasel doesn’t need to be told. One look and he’s already planning on this being his last visit. Wade knows that he doesn’t know what we know, and it makes him talk louder and faster- laughing betweens shouts of anger and looking over his shoulder to see if we’re affected. This kind of behavior is the reason people think he’s crazy, but I’ve been in their heads and I don’t think anyone should be pointing fingers. Wade’s got tumors growing up, down, and sideways against his cranium. If anyone has an excuse for bad decisions it’s him.

            In that vein I have no excuse for being with him. My tumors are invented, my grief in recession, and I am no more incapable of controlling myself than Wade is of resisting my telepathic intimacy. I am a fool and the longer I stay the more I prove it.

            Weasel nods solemnly as though agreeing with my inner monologue. He’s reading something on his phone. “Do you still get called Somerton?”

            “No,” I float a pair of scissors out of a drawer and over to me, “ever since I tangled with the cartel they’ve been calling me _careta_. At least that’s the nicer thing they call me.” I snip off a lock of hair that keeps falling into my face. “They pinned the Somerton debacle on the landlord’s insurance fraud.”

            “Was it insurance fraud?”

            “Somehow, yeah. I didn’t know it at the time.” One night while in a domineering mood, I confessed to Weasel that I had been in that building when it blew. Telling him had the opposite effect I’d intended in that he was actually less frightened of me afterward.

            “It was Lani, by the way.”

            “What?”

            “The girl I chat with online who I _thought_ lived in China.” Weasel scratches his nose with one dirty fingernail. “It’s actually Lani who answers those things. She told everyone at the New Year’s party.”

            I don’t remember names anymore. If he tells me she has issues with her mother and grand delusions of owning a fashion label someday, I’ll remember which psyche I tripped through.

            A tidy hillock of shorn hair adds character to the tabletop. I sweep it into my palm and dust it out the kitchen window.          

           

            Blood and hell; as in, what the hell. What the hell do I do with a dead man in the kitchen and a knife in my hand and the fact that the two things don’t go together.

            “Was it you?” Wade asks, completing this circle of what the hell.

            “What was me?”

            Wade points both hands at the knife, at the body, back at the knife.

            “What do- _are you crazy?”_ I gesture wildly, drop the bloodless weapon, scaring myself when it hits the floor. “Shit.”

            The man is not even stabbed. There is no explanation at all. That’s why it must be me.

            “How do I know it wasn’t you?” I ask. “How do I know you didn’t just do something stupid, and, and drag a dead body into the house? Why the hell did you do that?”

            “I didn’t- HEY, don’t use that manipulative crap on me.”

            “Well, I didn’t kill him. He’s something you dragged in like a freaking cat bringing me mice and birds and all of Cinderella’s little freakin’ friends-”

            “Okay, not cool, I make the Disney references around here. I did not kill anyone.”

            “You always kill people.”                                                                                  

            “I- Screw you.” Kicks table. “Screw everything you just said. You don’t know me. You don’t care about me. I’ve been cleaning up my act all year and all you care about is you.”

            The corpse coughs.

            “All you care about is that ugly mask; that ugly dragged-out-of-a-lake-of-boohoo mask. If it’s not your dead husband-”

            “Wha-?” says the man on the floor.

            “-or that jerk you talk to on the phone all the time, then it’s your stupid mask and that’s all you care about.”

            I _throw_ the table- and knife- across the room. The guy covers his head and scrambles for a corner, apologizing repeatedly.

            “You do not mention him. You don’t get that right _ever._ ”

            Wade flips his hand at the guy in the corner. “Great to have you back. Now tell me, which one of us killed you?”

            “No one’s killed,” the guy puts up both hands, “I’ll just- I can leave.”

            “Shut up, shut up.” I wave him away. “What guy on the phone?”

            “The guy whose calls you take into another room where you think I can’t hear you.”

            “I know when you can’t hear me so if I let you hear it I’m not hiding it.” I beckon to the guy shaking on the floor. “Whatever’s in your pockets, let it go now, I don’t care if it was yours to start with.”   

            Everything, including the man’s wallet, falls onto the tile. “Okay, but that’s-”

            “We seriously thought one of us had killed you, you think it’s the first time we’ve had this conversation?” Wade surprisingly backs me up. “When you break into my house you get robbed.”

            “You fainted when you saw the drawer full of bullets, didn’t you?” I say. “Or was it the knife collection above the fridge?”

            The guy languidly brushes his knuckle over a cabinet door. “Bleach and borax…under the sink.”

            “Who looks under the sink?” Wade demands. “Like, who just packs all their gold bullion next to the Palmolive?”

            “Dude, just get out. I can’t kill him,” I jerk my hand at Wade, “but I can kill you.”

            Bowing his head, the guy trips over the contents of his pockets as he flees, receiving a cuff from Wade on his way out.

            Our argument continues with our looks.         

            “I’m leaving.”

            “You are? Why?”

            “Because you are crazy, Wade, because you don’t care about me until you think I don’t care about you.”

            “I’m not crazy.” He fills his space up, raises his arms, tries to look bigger. “I am not crazy and I care. You’ve gotten worse being around me, and I notice that. That’s caring.” Then he deflates. “Right? It’s caring to notice change in other people?”

            I frown. I look away.

            “Because I’ve changed and you haven’t cared.”

            My hearing pushes past him taking in all of the neighboring homes, passing cars, animals and people. I listen to everything I can reach, every draw of breath, every grind of gears, every scratch of grass. Just so I don’t have to hear him tell me what’s wrong with me.

            He’s scratching the back of his head- lightly, with his mask off. He moves closer, kicks the stuff on the floor with the side of his foot. He puts out his hand, puts out both hands.   

            “…I’ll try harder to be the good guy,” he’s saying when I bring my senses back into this room, “because you were right, as always, that being good is good for me. But, A-baby.”

            When he touches me I crumple like a page to flame, like a glossy magazine ad.

            “If I’m making you crazy, I- I can’t tell you to stay.” The dismay in Wade’s voice is the same as a small child being told they can’t go to Disneyland. “And it’s fine, I mean, ‘Nessa and I were a rollercoaster, breaking up and hooking up all the time. I just…I wanted to be that better guy for you.”

            I look into his eyes, the rare parts of him that function despite the cancer. He meant what he said about New York. He actually wants to help.


	84. Chapter 84

            Vince is in this room.   

            Some mornings my mind wakes up with people in it. It started in high school when I didn’t yet know how to separate others’ minds from my own. I’d sit up in bed with my head in my hands trying to card classmates out of my brain like burrs out of wool. Later, when only Vince was allowed up there, I got used to his presence lingering even when he wasn’t around; my telepathy effectually mimicking his.

            Rising up on my elbows, I yawn, stretch my legs under the covers, and keep my eyes closed. In the months following his death when- behind lidded eyes- I’d forgotten he was gone, opening them was particularly devastating. Now, alone for the first time in a decade, I bask in the moment. Sans Wade, sans AI’s, sans the unwanted audience of telepaths, I can walk through my own house and imagine he is in another room, ready to talk to me or waiting for me to talk to him. So, I behave like he’s watching and talk to empty rooms until my telepathy snaps out of it and turns to the right stations.

            Clint shuffles through mud puddles to meet me in the park’s gazebo, rain soaking his sleeves. I usually suggest a café, a library, even a clock tower once, but he always chooses a liaison out in the open. I suspect we’re being watched. I’ve charted the towns where he’s willing to meet, attempting to pinpoint where he’s living; if he travels from the farm or if he’s still hiding from the Accords. We’ve met six times since November and he’s determined to throw me off the scent.  I could eke it out of him, but he knows how to withhold information. I could climb into his memories and scratch up the last place he brushed his teeth, but he would know that too and it’d end our friendship.   

            He jogs the last few steps and tugs his hood off under the awning. “Damn, shoulda picked a sunny day.”

            He picks the days he picks, so I say nothing.

            “What?” he asks defensively.

            “What?”

            He sits adjacent to me on the hexagonal wooden bench. “You always act suspicious around me.”

            “No.”

            “Yes you do, you just sit there eyeing me.” He gestures to how I’m sitting right now.   

            Sigh. Sit up straight. Raise both brows.

            He nods curtly. “So what happened?”

            “We caught a robber, decided to take a break, and I moved out. Just like I told you.”

            He flaps both hands like he’s throwing confetti. “Just like that. You know what guys do on ‘breaks,’ right? Where are you staying?”

            “I don’t expect him to be loyal to me.”

            _“Where are you staying?”_

            “A hotel.” I lean into the word, dragging out the last syllable.

            “And how are you paying for it?” He presses his fingers to his lips and appears studious.

            “Savings account.”

            He lowers his chin to his chest, mumbles something, and crosses his legs- ankle on knee to avoid mud on his jeans. “Ace, I have put up with enough crap in my own life that I can handle hearing what’s going on in yours- unedited, uncensored. Now be straight with me or we’re done: what kind of trouble are you in?”

            I register surprise. “I’m not in trouble.”

            “Bullshit.”

            “I’m not.”

            “Alright, fine. What kind of trouble are you _not_ in?”

            I cough up a laugh- how do I explain?- and occupy my eyes with the sodden park. Trouble comes to me, looking for a job. “It’s not a hotel, it’s a house.”

            “What kind of house?”

            “A house house- what did you think I was going to say? A halfway house, you think I’m doing drugs?”

            He rolls his eyes and his head. “If you were doing drugs you wouldn’t hole up in some house with other burnouts you’d find an actual hole to crawl into. No, I did not mean halfway house.”

            “Then what did you mean?”

            “I meant- forget what I meant, I don’t remember- No, I do. Safe house. Are you living in a safe house?”

            I prop my elbow and scratch my palm. “Sure.”

            He gives me the look that tells me he hates that response. “Who set it up for you?”

            “I did.”

            “You set it up?”

            “I bought it. With  money. My money.” I tuck both hands between my legs and cross them. “Don’t be so surprised.”

            Clint pushes his tongue behind his upper lip. “Okay. How many safe houses do you own?”

            “Just the one.”

            He stares patiently.

            “Five,” I amend, like a forgetful student. “Three in the country.”

            “The country or this country?”

            “This country.” I’m proud of him, proud of myself for my honesty. "You’re not mad at me. You are annoyed though.”

            “Why didn’t you just tell me this, what did you think I’d do?” His eyebrows slant upward and try to meet. “I want to say ‘Damn, look at you,’ but I think I should actually be worried.”

            Dismissing him, I roll my gaze to the side.

            “Is it because of Wade, is that what the houses are-?”

            “Wade didn’t do anything.” I realize afterward that an instant defense is damning. “They’re just houses.”

            “Five houses, huh?” he says thoughtfully, rubbing his lips together.     

            Wind sweeps the rain sideways, briefly, smattering the insides of the gazebo. Clint wipes droplets off his face and I pull my hood back on. The jacket material is heathered gray, not black, not polyester. I don’t want to be mistaken for the other me.

 

            When the weather worsens, I get my way. We crowd into a tiny eatery a walking distance from the park, a place that’s been so many things the fifty-foot sign by the road is shaped like a fish, the stained glass door depicts a hamburger, but the only things they’ll sell you are weak coffee and variegated bagels served in raspy tissue paper.

            Clint’s thumb bears down on the plastic knife as he smears a chilled gob of cream cheese onto his everything bagel. Some sticks to his knuckle, which catches a sunflower seed, and he lifts the knuckle to his mouth and sucks it off. I wait for the vulgar punchline. When it doesn’t come, I smile.

            “What?”

            “I forgot I’m with a mature adult.”

            “You’ve dropped your standards so low.”

            The place is empty minus the two Filipino women behind the glass cases, conversing in sentences that sound like loops of thread- occasionally jarred by American English and utterances of “ohmygawd.”

            “Was the McDonald’s too high profile for the Hawkeye?”

            Sipping rainwater coffee, Clint’s forehead wrinkles.

            “Diner’s are Clint’s thing, a good ol’ greasy spoon. None of this new-fangled fast food.”

            He sets the coffee down. “You’re diverting. That’s fine. I shouldn’t worry about you, you know what you’re doing.”

            I pull my arms to myself like I’ve just been pinched.

            “Truth is, I won’t be able to meet up like this again for a while.” Bite of bagel which he takes his time chewing, a thought on his mind, but not one I can hear, not fully formed. I finger the strangled cream cheese packet I ate before we got to the table.

            “Something’s about to happen and, you know me I’m pretending it’s not.” He snaps a glance at a multi-layered customer stamping in through the burger door. “But when it does- whether it’s aliens or dictatorships- I need to know that you’re going to be okay; some assurance that I don’t have to worry about you while I look after all the overgrown babies with superpowers.”

            I close my eyes, trying to be alone with Vince again like I was this morning. “You have a new home improvement project that you’ve promised to finish.”

            He grins around a mouthful of bagel, bouncing his knee under the table.

 

            The sun splits the clouds for an hour, so Clint and I return to the park. The wet concrete slaps under our boots and some paths are hopscotched with gasping earthworms. Clint watches me step around them and tries to do the same, hands in his pockets, nose touching his collar in concentration. I stride past the gazebo, so he does too, lifting his head higher in agreement or maybe in preparation for whatever this change of mood brings.

            “Why did you want to see me today?” I ask. “You knew over the phone that I’m not going to be okay _._ ”

            He swallows. “Well. I just wanted to see you.”

            We keep walking.

            At his rental car- blue and conspicuous as sunlight skims over its wet curves- Clint squeezes my hand, finds it cold, and rubs it between both of his like he’s hoping to start a fire.

            “You think you’ll take Wade back? I mean, you liked him.”

            The top button of his flannel peeks out of his partially zipped coat. “He was temporary. I don’t know.”

            He’s stopped rubbing my hand now and is just holding it. “Like we were?”

            “We” waits there while he stubbornly refuses to define it. We the Bartons, we the Avengers, we anyone I left in New York.

            I tug my hand away. _“Everything_ in my life is temporary. My friends, my home, my name. I didn’t expect to stay at Xavier’s for three weeks let alone eight years. I expected Matt to get tired of me in one semester, Tony to forget me overnight. I expected Vince to get over his crush in a month, and told him the reason I couldn’t love him was because he might die someday. I told him that and then spent six years regarding him as some fragile sand castle.”

            A me from every era tells me to cut it out, to shut up, I’m an embarrassment.

            Clint does not hold me or try to take my hand again. He does not do exactly what every book and movie dictates should happen right now. He bites his lip and puts every wrinkle in his face to use, but he does not interrupt me with sympathy. He does not interfere with my emotions. Those stay mine.

            My inner selves win out. I do not sob like six-year-old me when her parents left, but I do not contain myself to a stoic frown like all my later selves. The tears flow and I do not staunch them.

            “You are a permanent thing, Clint. I’d give up my abilities and half my limbs before I gave you up.” I sniffle. “Not like you deserve it.”

            He chuckles. “Eh, you could be worse. You could be Asgardian.”

            I think of Thor’s brother, the dour man in Stark Tower, and the disinterested twenty-year-old who felt she’d never have to see any of those people again. “I should never have become an Avenger.”

            “Whine, whine.” Clint pops his neck. “Maybe you should’ve never come back to Earth. Maybe you should’ve never met Vince or Tony- definitely should’ve never met me. Shouldn’t have given your time and effort to the City of New York, or to the school, the kids, the team. You gave and you gave, and they took everything out of you.” He has to pause to lick his lips, to swallow, to reignite his temper. “So? You start to take and discover you’re better at taking than anyone else because you’ve watched the experts make it look easy. Except it hurts you more than you thought it would. Your heart can’t handle it, it hates taking, it hates those who take. You become so conflicted you turn yourself inside out trying to hate them and love yourself at the same time. The love gets wiped out and you turn into...”

            He’s shaking his head at the pavement, face tight as his mouth tries to translate emotion into thought like I can’t hear both.

            “Where are you going with this?”

            His eyes are round, nostrils flared. Licking his lips again, he says, “What I wouldn’t give to talk to the old you right now.”      

            I cross my arms and lean against the car window. “Not you too.”

            “No, I can handle this version,” he nods up and down at me, “but I don’t like what it did with the old one.”

            “Grief killed her.”

            “Grief crippled her; the new Ace put her down.” He searches for his keys like he can’t wait to get away from me. “Vince is gone and so is the Ace he knew. ‘Not you too,’” he mutters. “It’s a girl, by the way.”

            I’m grinding my teeth, not even caring what that last statement means. “What is?”

            “The baby.” Keys in hand, he presses the button and walks around the other side. “Born just in time to see out their Ace too.”

            I lean off the car and squint at him over the roof. “Madge’s baby?”

            “Tiny. Blonde. Cries like a T-Rex. Yeah.”

            Pride swells within me, and I imagine Vince is here too. _Did you hear that? We’re an aunt and uncle now._

            “Don’t be mad, but I sent a card in your name.” He takes his coat off- it’s gotten humid now that the sun’s out- and throws it into the passenger seat before closing the door. “They sent it back.”

            Who does he not want me to be mad at? “Why did you ask if I’d get back with Wade?”

            He doesn’t hear me. He’s watching blackbirds land on the fish sign.


	85. Chapter 85

            The entitled mouthpiece at the other end of the line has been listing his demands for the past thirty seconds. Something about getting eighty grand or giving me eighty grand- I don’t know. I hang up and turn the phone off. 

            My presence echoes in the unfurnished room. A stack of books the height of my knee and their unboxed shelves lounge against the wall, pressing indentations into a cheap taupe rug. Three weeks in and this is what I have to show for it- along with a saturation of loneliness, a throb of guilt, and an additional thirty-thousand in cash buried at the bottom of the freezer under a bag of ice and a dense layer of steak.

            Well. Enough of that.

            There’s food on the counter when Wade comes home, and by the speediness of his hug I think it’s fair to say I was missed. Beyond that we don’t address my absence. We eat and when I prop my foot on his chair we’re back together.

            “No sex though, man. I jumped into that before I was ready.” And I’d be lying if I said I wanted to rub up against your lumpy, pain-drenched body with the occasional live skin sending a shock of some wild emotion into my system. “Besides, you want it way more often than I do.”

            He kneels and howls in despair.

            Later, calmer, under a bleary moon, he asks glibly, “Did you get tired of Phone Guy?”

            “A little. He’s taken and I’m not interested.” I remember what Clint said. “Who did you see while I was gone?”

            “Who? No one. I was waiting for you to come back.”

            Some fantastical loyal cur waiting by the window. “For three weeks? Not even a strip show or Dial-A-Skank?”

            “Those count as cheating?” He’s aghast.

            “None of it would be cheating, we weren’t together.”

            “Well, I didn’t do those things either. You hate kink, so I was kink-free while I waited for you,” he crosses his heart.

            “So you never cheated on Vanessa or looked around during those times she was gone? Why did she leave you so often, why did you love her?”

            “Sure, well, Nessa had her problems, I mean, but she was a good girl at heart. She always came back in one form or another. Technically, I left her first when I was diagnosed- I didn’t want her to have to live with that stress. We never really stuck together after that. You see, she…”

            I need sleep, a full week- no, a month of sleep. I want everyone to shut up in that time and whoever wakes me beforehand gets eaten. I don’t care if a bomb is dropped or a portal opened, aliens or robots, I deserve a fair coma.

            “…so she’s not the only woman I ever loved. I mean, Vinny couldn’t have been the only-”

            “He was. Don’t bring him up again, that’s why I left.” Was it? I don’t remember now.

            “Sure. Not because you don’t want to be with me and hate who I am and how I live, that’s crazy talk.”

            I grind my lip, remind myself he has cancer of the brain- and butt, the thing he is currently sitting on- and be nice. “Wade, you’re sweet, that’s all that matters.”

            “Are you sure? I feel like there should be more, but in song form. You’re beautiful.”

            “Go on.”

            “Would you-”

            I push his face away with my hand, his mind filthier than Tony and Matt combined. We stay outside until the phone rings in the house- Wade insisted on a landline. The call is for me, so I bring it out to the patio. Wade shouts,

            “We’re not interested, but thanks for the offer, Slumdog Millionaire.”

            I kick his chair so hard it turns a right angle, him gripping the rests in alarm.

            “Phone Guy,” he mouths, and I mute him.                    

            The call is another frustration, an old client who’s been trying to get in touch with me all month but managed to lose my cell number. He’s recommending someone to me, someone who intimidates him from the sound of it. I have no pity for clients unless they deserve it. Criminals spooking other criminals only seems fair.

            Wade’s been massaging my foot during the entire phone call. It feels damn good and it’s keeping him happy, so I don’t stop him. Setting the phone on the brickwork, I rest my chin in my hand and unmute him. He’s singing, sounds like showtunes, maybe something I heard belted from a Broadway rooftop or squeezed through an aficionado’s earbuds. Then I taste something fried and doused in cinnamon, another thing tinged with cumin. Tourists smelling of hotel soaps, counterfeit perfume, fresh polyester, old sneakers, the roughened strap of a Nikon; and at last, salty limeade from that stand on the corner of…

            “How’s the hero work coming, big guy?”

            Wade laughs outright then drops the humor. “Harder than it looks- that’s what she said- why didn’t you tell me it’s so hard?”

            “What’d you do?”

            He slaps my relaxed foot and gestures for the other one. “My trouble is timing, as in, I never get there in time. _Boom_ , the crime’s already committed, somebody’s dead, the cops are mad, and the good chili dog place is closed. Then when I catch the dirt chute that deaded somebody, he always goads me into stabbing him, but aren’t good guys technically pro no-stabbing? Maybe I should stop leading with, ‘Don’t make me stab you,’ because too many people are taking it as a challenge.”

            I slump in my chair and stretch my toes in his lap. “I’ll come with you next time and we’ll try to prevent ‘deading’ from occurring- if at all possible. Anything besides stabbing? Good guys aren’t supposed to mutilate the bad guy.”

            “Yeah, yeah, code of ethics and all that…I can’t promise I haven’t done that lately.”

            Pulling my foot away, I sit up. “Well it doesn’t happen anymore, okay? People deserve to die with all their body parts intact.” Dignity too, but even I know that’s too much to ask. “How do you find the crimes before they happen?”

            “Tip line.” He beams his wonky smile, and I choose not to pursue the topic.

                       

            Manny pinches his hairy lip when he sees the ear plugs. I don’t tell him I can hear him through them, but not the trilling, chirruping sensory hell of the slot machines. If I have to meet with a client before he’ll pay me, I’d at least prefer it someplace I can stand.

            It started with a list of materials slipped in with the junk mail and a copy of _Celebrity Skin-_ Wade hastily claimed it was Al’s subscription. Then the emails that had languished in my absence contained one or two vague references to said list. Finally, the phone call I received on the patio, and one that was later wasted on the wrong ear.

            “Something about someone needing advanced weaponry and materials or some shit,” Wade polishes a vinyl action figure of some heavily bosomed cartoon female. “Hispanican sounding guy, kept asking about a list.”

            I’d tacked the list to the wall- which had become a massive corkboard for bills and printouts of memes. Leaning back on a kitchen stool, I ripped the list off the wall. “Did the list include alien tech?”

            “Alien tits?”

            Manny sets his hands like a ‘V’ on the table. “See, our plan is-”           

            “Don’t. Don’t tell me what it’s for, don’t even think about what it’s for. If you think about it, I am legally obligated to stop you.” This phrase tends to stall them. Give me a hard time, forget to pay, or do something irredeemable and I’ll send a conga line of federal agencies swooping in. Once they’ve picked you clean, the IRS arrives to shuffle off with your remains. “Do you understand?”

            Lip chewing indicates he doesn’t, but he has a healthy fear of me- or at least his current impression of me. This face is not mine. It hurts like hell and my healing factor resists the whole time. When meeting clients, they never see the same face twice. The faces I choose are of dead celebrities, and for a voice I sometimes mimic the person I’m speaking to.

            “Your problem is,” I push the list toward him, neon with revisions, “this stuff won’t all be in one place. I’ll need to do some window shopping and come back to you.”

            He cranes his neck, rubbing ringed fingers.

            “Some things I can get on my own.” I press the foam plug deeper into my ear as a shrill party hits the jackpot. “Some of it you’ll need a team to move out.”

            “These places, they be spread out all over the place, like how far?” He scrutinizes me. “How far will my boss need to send guys?”

            Pay me and I’ll find out. “How far can you go?”

            This puts him on the spot, afraid to say “only this far” or “as far as it’ll take” in case I reject or overburden him. When his mind switches tracks I lower my eyelids at his predictability.

            “How I know you won’t be sending us into a trap, how I know the shit be quality?”

            “Because I’m the one getting it.” A well-timed waitress drops by with my order; large enough to share. When she and her folding table leave, I point out what’s his. “You’ll need expendables, guys willing to take jail time if it comes to that.”

            Mouthful of quarter pounder has his turn to belittle me; obviously there will be fall guys, that’s how master plans work.

            We haggle my fee into the two-digit millions, and I let him finish his lunch.

            “You really don’t care what it’s used for?” He asks after the check’s been covered and he’s tipped the waitress a ten.

            “You don’t care where it comes from?”

            Manny chews his lip again. “Well, like the military, you know. Or Russia or someplace.”

            Russia or someplace. The list of SHIELD’s facilities will have to do. Materials, ordnance, and classified projects alike were catalogued and vaulted in half-run bases and unguarded hubs, some acquisitioned by the military, others by Stark Industries. None by ass-backwards Russia, though I’ve yet to see a nation with its ass on right.

            “Is this,” Manny swipes a hand in front of his face, “your real face? I heard you once looked like Capone.”

            My current face winces from the pain of Bonnie Parker’s sharp features. “What did Capone look like, do you know?”

            He does not. I could impersonate a president and he wouldn’t know me from the face on his money.

            Scouting takes a week, in which I cut corners because I don’t care if they get their end product or not. I steal whatever I can carry that coincides with the list, the remarkably alarming list, and wonder why they don’t just bribe the owners and save me the trouble. Then the raids kick off as planned.  

            Agents- do I still need to use that word?- shrink into the paneling as we pass through, backs to barriers but never doors, allowing us unfettered access. Attempts have been made to call for backup, for orders, for rescue, but this is hard to do in a staged blackout with a technopath disrupting cell service. There is a simultaneous heist occurring in another SHIELD facility, and a third planned to begin as this one ends. If word does get out to other bases it won’t be soon enough. 

            No one makes a move unless it appeases me.  

            The men I’m accompanied by, the fall guys Manny’s boss supplied me with, distribute verbal abuse and physical intimidation to any agent deaf to the memo. Faculty must respond well to cuffs, jibes, and the likelihood of sexist statements if they want this unforeseen humiliation to end bloodlessly. Afterward they can hunt down our families- we have none- our bank accounts- good luck- and certainly our criminal records and current addresses- some of us have both.

            I take account of persons near and far in case any are enhanced, though I found none during my scouting mission. In this era it would be stupid for them not to hire names off the Index. If I trusted other freaks, I’d hire some myself.

            We pass under a hanging walkway, feeling the desire of others to spit upon us from above. I look upward at faces both light and dark, old and young, all touting that useless bird of prey insignia somewhere on their persons. The darkened, pinpoints of my mask leer up at them, and I understand how raptors feel when wolves pass below their branch- glad to not be on the ground.

            “What is it?” someone asks.

            “It moves like an LMD,” someone else observes.

            This person is ridiculed; LMD’s move like we do, so it’s probably an alien. Why would an alien want the shit they keep here? Surely, an alien would own better.

            “Director Coulson.”

            I’m traveling away from the source of this pronoun when I remember why the name sounds familiar. Yes, that Coulson, the one I last saw in 2011 and decided to hate in 2014.

            A technician is struck for not unlocking a door fast enough, while the young agent continues murmuring into a pristine radio set that my technopathy overlooked. I phase into the booth with him, invisible, and the raid forges on without me. He reports there are more- no, less- no, more of us than there really are. We’re taking whatever isn’t nailed down, minus his radio, and hail from no known organization. What should they do?

            We await a response from this Coulson, but a female voice informs him theirs is not the only raid occurring at the moment and that both raids are very much like the ones on privately owned complexes elsewhere- it’s been a busy couple days. A female Coulson barely concerns me, so I have my leg through the wall when she announces Director Coulson’s just arrived.

            A shouting match has erupted in another wing between one of my men and one of my client’s. I keep one ear on it until it dies down naturally. My men know better than to fight on the job.

            “Garrison,” crackles a voice that twists my neck, “can you tell me what it is they’re taking?”

            He doesn’t know, so I tell him in his head, convince him these thoughts are fact, and he transmutes them to Coulson.

            “Have you,” in context it’s a collective ‘you’, “confirmed an enhanced is the leader, is the Somerton killer?”

            Of course SHIELD would remember that name, a cut down spy relieved of his identity only to be resurrected to slaughter Hydra. Garrison’s slight throat contracts inside his high collar. “Sir, Somerton fit this description; a gray cadaver wearing black armor and cowl. He must’ve scouted us out beforehand, sir.”

            No one marks my disappearance as I eavesdrop this conversation. The flash of my mask entering the building zapped across screens before the screens themselves tapped out. Until they see me leave, I might as well be standing behind them.

            Leaning over Garrison’s shoulder, I reappear and stifle his reaction, making his body stiff and inert. The voice crackles, “Tell your immediate superiors to stay neutral. Somerton is likely someone from the old Index with a grudge against the old system. They may not be a _he_ either. Do not engage.”

            Just listen to that nerve, profiling me as though I’m not in the room.    

            Garrison bleats into the mic in some strangled attempt to reveal me, but I calm his nerves and leave quietly. He continues to think I am there. 

            Three semis were arranged for to make off with my client’s goods, two weighed down with men as decoys. In our truck, the co-leader of the team is making a call to his boss in pigeon English. My man Trujillo and I exchange looks. On any given job I allow four cell phones, two on myself- a burner and a lifeline- and the others split between someone my client trusts and someone I trust. Trust; in the span of a hummingbird’s wing beat I trusted SHIELD, and it undid me. My name in the Index, my mother, her ties to Hydra, the week of suspense before the attack, and the falling away like shale of the family Xavier built for us all because I trusted one wrong person.

            Now? Now, it sounds like a word problem: If SHIELD’s heyday rate of recovery was five hours, but due to decimation of staff, crumbling of infrastructure, and minimal funding it is now two weeks, how far away can a mercenary flee? Will the consequences be lasting? How much does your average dishonored spy take for a bribe? And how will you know they’ve found you?

            Our phone rings. Trujillo answers it, frowns, and checks the caller ID twice. I laugh and hold out my hand.

            “It’s for me.”    


	86. Chapter 86

            The stage is set. Under a shell corporation I purchased a block of office buildings in a dismally bankrupt region of the Eastern Hemisphere. Here I sit at one end of an overcompensating conference table, back to the wall, flanked by large windows so his people can watch him at his end looking like a paper duck in a shooting gallery, the empty entrance and two guards at his back. I deliberated over how I should present myself- in the disguise? a dead man’s face?- but ultimately came as myself.

            When he sees me though he does not react, and I bristle that maybe he’s forgotten who I am. Six years have added wrinkles to his memory as well as his plasticine face, pressed by a lazy thumb and bearing the print. Yet one sorry glance- a downturn of a lip, a flattened brow- disabuses me of my suspicion. He thinks Ace is dead and I’ve borrowed her face to haunt him, a face I could easily have plucked from any of SHIELD’s undefended old files. I consider chaining him to that belief.

            “Please, sit down."

            He holds his jacket to himself with one hand while pulling out his chair, and when he looks at me it is without focusing. He’s hoping this face is not one he knows. I press the toe of my shoe into the carpet.

            “In a world where you can return from the dead you think I’d let someone borrow my face without permission?”

            His thumbprint features go blank with fear and when they aren’t switched for the next slide fast enough I realize this isn't the same Coulson either. He stretches his neck to swallow his lag.

            “Ace,” like he’s answering an obvious question, “it’s been a while.”

            Buttery smile.

            “Who was that over the phone? They had my voice.”

There was some chatter among his colleagues about clone droids or some sad invention like that. I lean forward and sniff.

“I’m going to assume it was you, as I was asked for specifically.”

My eyes snap, examining his contents. “You seem nervous, Phil.”

            His throat pulsates. He draws his eye across the four guards in the room. “May I ask how you intend this meeting to end?”

            Relaxing my focus, I give my best school counselor impression. “That depends on how much you cooperate.”

            “We’ve cooperated enough. The items taken could start a war, and the theft was a supercilious performance. People were hurt.”

            “After D.C. I'm amazed that wasn't in their contracts.” Start a war? Earth history has proven that one bullet can trigger an apocalypse- or in this instance one spear. “I don’t need to tell you how dangerous alien technology can be.”

            The open and close of his mouth, the pointed stare; the event did occur, was not thoughtlessly fabricated. There may even be a scar from the way he’s adjusting his shoulder, and I’m getting a better idea of what’s different about him. Coulson weakly licks his lips, his stitched mind as pliable as putty, scarred by ravines and shell-shocked meadows where my psyche clicks its tongue at the damage done. This is SHIELD’s best foot forward?

            “Is it fair to assume you’re the masked mercenary who goes by so many aliases?” He falteringly tries to regain some ground. “I can’t see you shying away from extraterrestrial weaponry.”

            “It would be unfair to you actually. This individual would be quite the get for your Index, whereas I’m disappointingly already on it.”

            It’s like watching a statue come to life or seeing an avatar turn and face the screen. His expression cracks like a dropped egg; his gaze removes from me to bore into the carpet, the essence of professional intimidation out the window and screaming toward the concrete.

            “Was it, you?” I ask. “You put me on the Index?”

            The man is trying to compose himself while biting the inside of his lip; there is no doubting what my empathy is reading. He knows now why he’s here, and that the masked bane is actually that kid he coerced because his superiors were Nazis.

            “Hydra was especially interested in the inclusion of my classmates and teachers otherwise my name might have been overlooked.”

            “We haven’t-” he stops short, mentally rephrases. “I personally haven’t looked into the outcomes of every individual on the list. We’ve been addressing them gradually.”

            “And making a new list.”

            He will not answer to that, but whether or not he believes me capable of mind-reading he knows I hear his intentions. I won't threaten him. Revenge never watered down my rage.

            “I did my homework,” I say. “I’d hoped you’d done yours. The Chitauri tech is all gone, you can’t bargain for it. I didn’t ask where or what it would be used for.”

            “Seeing you I didn’t assume we’d be getting any of it back.”

            He sits straight when the guards vanish, then settles a vexed eye on my change of appearance; hair short, clothes dark. “Why?”

            “To make it appear as though I still need people, making us equals.” I pay attention to the sounds of his operatives in the heat soaked night outside. “I didn’t think you’d take me seriously without them.”

            “I take you very seriously.”

            “You didn’t last time.” I stretch on my chair.

            “When what you stole is implemented-”

            “What my organization relocated.”

            “-you won’t feel responsible for the deaths caused by your involvement?”

            Disliking the sedentary nature of this argument, I stand up to stretch my legs. “If someone feels strongly enough to start a war they’ll throw the nearest rock.”

            “Yet you’ve provided them with far more effective materials. Weren’t you the girl who minutes ago held me and my organization responsible for everyone on the Index?”

            “I’m eighty years old, you don’t hear me calling you boy.” I keep one hand on the table as though I might flip it. “Do you feel a responsibility toward the lives your organization ruined? Would you halt every operation currently in progress because they would most certainly harm other human beings?”

            He leans back in his seat, his mouth filling in that cornered smile he carries in his breast pocket. “You don’t consider yourself human.”

            I don’t consider us the same species of human.

            “How long have you been doing this? Since the incident?”

            “The Battle of Manhattan, you mean. Was that diabetic rebranding SHIELD’s idea? Afflicted New Yorkers call it something else.”

            “Does Stark know?”

            “Know what, that you’re alive?” I wink.

“Naturally I’d tell him you’ve become a notorious mercenary-”           

            “Hedonist; I can get money anywhere.” We’ve descended into tattletale. “I don’t think he’d be surprised after our last encounter, and you’d be doing me a huge favor because I haven’t thought of a good way to break it to him.”

            Coulson shrugs. “Why not splashed across a news site? I know how concerned you are about your internet presence.”

            “Your reanimation is the kindest indiscretion I could reveal.” And you’re too small for me to bite the head off of now. “No one would be shocked, if they even remember who you were.”

            He remains uninjured. “Let’s call it a draw then. I’ll stay dead and you…dead in your own way.”

            Across the table our looks share a similar strain. All freedoms are packaged in small print.

            “Just retire, Phil. They’ll keep beating you as long as you stay in the harness.”

 

            I’ve been asked to clear the way for the movement of illegal freight into New York City. In the time the Avengers’ headquarters moved upstate till now there’s been a significant increase in criminal and vigilante activity. Lone activists and skulking heroes pop up and disappear, lending the local media a dizzying whack-a-mole style of journalism and giving the crime syndicates an immunization boost for next time. This is not a social climate I’m willing to wade back into, to lurk in the base corners after being preened by the heady heights of the Tower. I accept the job for a quarter of the incentive, not about to inform a client I’d rather be caught naked than revisit the most important city on the planet.

            Holing up in a hotel, I tip well and reserve three different rooms over the course of my stay. Days are spent half sleeping, half perusing local news for tales of saviors from car accidents, theft, assault, and the varied perils of drunkenness. Anonymous teenagers tell of relief from gang pressure, others of cops saved from gunfire and of innocents saved from cops. It’s like the city has been turned inside out revealing its inverse to be just as bizarre and uncouth.

            I chisel these urban myths down to seven crusading personages, each one confining his or her activities to a distinct criminal territory. All except Spider-Man, whose name sounds like it was invented by a child wielding crayons.  

            I’m sitting on a rooftop ledge listening to Wade over the phone, wishing I could tell him about my meeting with Coulson and he’d understand its significance. Right now he’s overly concerned with something he saw on daytime television, casually mentions his plans to assassinate some annoying government official, and can’t wait for me to try a new recipe he created involving four kinds of meat.

            “So, babe, how’s it hanging?”

            “Stupid. I don’t know what I’m doing here, I don’t…I don’t care about these freaks.”

            “That’s not a very nice thing to call the Mole Women.”

            “And I hate why I’m here, I don’t care about this dumbass’s criminal activity, I don’t work for him. If it didn’t guarantee a bloodbath I’d send them through one of the hot neighborhoods. This city’s gone to shit since I left- no, since the invasion. It was always crap by human standards, but now it…it’s creepy. This isn’t the Earth I came back to.”

            “Aw, hon, New York’s always been creepy. You don’t have to like them apples.”

            I flinch; people shouting in the street like it’s a goddamn playground. Garbage sitting uncollected in an alley latches onto an updraft and grabs me by both nostrils, so I cover my nose and mouth.

            “Speaking bout dem apples, when you come back…”

            Maybe I just hate cities. No, it’s something else, something I can’t get away from. “You remember the first job I took, with the crack dealers? I didn’t take it because of them. It was a pro bono call, someone who needed real help- scared, beaten down. When she spoke to me it felt like I’d been waiting for her to call, like I was the only person she should’ve called. I went without thinking. I wanted to do it, and there was no doubt in my mind that I had to. So why am I doing _this_? This is crap, my clients are slimy; I have to refrain from choking some of them.” Some are alright. They’re criminals, but they’re respectful about it. “Wade, are you listening?”

            He’s laughing at the TV and I picture the phone resting on his knee next to the remote. I’d be furious if I didn’t understand how easily he can be distracted, his mind constantly healing and erupting. I end the call, scratch my cheek, and press my knees together.

            “I’m sorry,” I rub my hands over my knees, “I don’t really hate you.”

            I study the faint green threads beneath my skin, fingernails pink and scuffed. I don’t hate this host or the person inside her, and I sincerely miss all the people she’s been.

            Night falls later in a metropolis where the synthetic lights form a barrier between people and the stars. I move a few blocks north, searching for sounds and smells that comfort me, and when I can’t find any I let the fact that I can hear and smell comfort me. I curl up on a bi-colored fire escape landing and watch stray pets and stray people live their lives.

            Up the street an SUV thrums with hip-hop, above me a fourth floor window is delivering lines in Al Pacino’s voice. Over the garbage and exhaust fumes flutters the scent of fish sauce and grilled pork. I can taste the briny soup as well as the burning grease, hear the searing pan overlapping the pitchy conversation of the diners. My knowledge of Eastern dialects is slim, but my telepathy knows they’re talking about work and grandchildren; bragging about the newest additions to their family trees.

            There’s a clang on the neighboring roof followed by the impact of rubber soles. Unmoved, I wait until I see the figure leap the narrow alley, sailing over head and tumbling off the precipice onto the next roof. I teleport to the top of the fire escape and follow the rapidly moving individual. He, I can smell him, stays out of the light where he can, so I don’t see the red of his suit until he’s vaulted a ventilation unit and caught in the glare of a billboard light. At one point he turns his head, listening for whoever’s following him, so I pull my cowl on.

            We stop running when he jumps down a fire escape. A hostile group of loud-mouthed young people jeers at him as he breaks up the fight, and I find a decent unit to sit on; waiting with hands loosely clasped. Eventually he clambers back up the fire escape, one foot on the roof, never taking his eyes off the ground. The streetlight below his ear outlines his stumpy horns.

            “Did we have an appointment?” he asks smartly.

            “Just observing.”

            He tilts his head, trying to catch a sound. “You chased me all that way yet your heartbeat’s-”

            “Unimpressed?”

            Hesitation. “What are you doing out here?”

            “I used to live here. Were you here for the incident?”

            Head shake. “Out of state.”

            “It was ugly. They were ugly; they smelled like toad piss.”

            He cocks his head with a subdued laugh.

            “Anyway, you take care.” I get up.

            “Can I ask you something?”

            I stop moving.

            “Are you all one person or part of a group? I hear so many different names for you.”

            Not the best card he could’ve played. “How many people are you, this guy or the one in black who bombed Hell’s Kitchen?”

            His lips are the only visible part of him, and they curl and uncurl as the question settles uncomfortably within him. “I didn’t cause the bombings.”

            He waits for me to admit whether or not I caused mine. When I don’t, he wipes grime off his suit leg. “What should I call you?”

            “‘Bitch’ seems to be a favorite.”

            He huffs humorlessly. “I didn’t pick my name either.”

            I parrot a look at him. “Nihil.”

            “Nothing.”

            Man knows his Latin. “You a lawyer?”

            “I’m Catholic,” he offers helpfully.

            Catholics don’t know shit and lawyers know how to lie. “When do you find time for all this? You’ve alienated your family and friends by now, right?”

            No reply but grinding teeth.

            “You’re a full-grown man with a day job and probably people to support. Whatever self-righteous tales you tell yourself, your sacrifice makes no difference. No one will remember you, and this world will revolve on.”

            “Well,” he inhales justly, “I can tell what tales you tell yourself at night.”

            “Then consider it hearsay, but I know what I see. You’re a blind lawyer and there can’t be too many of those. Go home.”

            I turn and leave.

 

            Different evening, just before sundown. Two mornings ago I finally sighted the blurry arachnid as a streak of candy apple red past the hotel window. It infuriated me, and I’ve given up on all other vigilantes since- one of them is uptown anyway and the other is slowly being throttled by Wild Turkey.

            He keeps strange hours. He covers more ground because he’s faster- videos show him swinging on draglines between buildings- but his activities are confined to the morning and evening rush with occasional sightings on weekends. As he’s frequently seen crossing the Queensboro bridge, I wait this evening on the center tower, seated at an angle where commuters are unlikely to see me. At length I hear a low hiss and a snap- _twang_ like a rubber band.

            “Hey!” He lands behind me. “Hey, how’d you get up here? That’s impressive.”

            As expected he thinks I’m going to jump.

            “Do you need help getting back down? Can I help you back down?”

            I look his suit over. “Nice suit.”

            “Oh thanks,” he puts both hands on his abdomen. “I’m glad you like it, I haven’t had it very long it’s kinda… I’m still tryna figure it out.”

            I nod casually. “How old were you in the attack?”

            “Ten,” he answers without thinking. “Oh, you mean the incident? With the aliens?”

            Good save, but damage done. “Yeah that one.”

            “Oh, I was twenty.”

            Speedy mental calculator too. “You live in Brooklyn?”

            “Uh, yeah,” he answers, pleased with the suggestion. Not a great liar and now he’s thinking about his apartment in the projects. “Look, I really don’t feel comfortable leaving you up here. “

            Obligingly, I scoot away from the edge and pull my legs up. “Better?”

            “Much better, thanks.”

            “How do you swing? Is it with cables, or a grappling gun, or?”

            “Oh no, just like this.” He flicks his wrist, and from a sewn on gadget shoots one of his draglines. Coming in contact with the bridge, it latches on and becomes taut.

            It’s the stuff that was all over Wade’s salvaged car parts from the Leipzig airport. “You know Tony Stark don’t you? He made you that suit.”

            “H-how’d you know that?”

            I crease my lips and look out over the water. “You like engineering ?”

            “Yeah.”

            “And he’s sponsoring or has offered to pay for your education?”

            “He- who are you?”

            “Nobody. Go home, kid. You’re doing a good job, but you need to be at home with your mom.”

            “I…yeah. Okay. I’m not leaving till you’re safely on the ground though. Or, you know, the bridge. Can I get you to do that?”

            He’s quite calm for a fifteen-year-old you doesn’t know what to say to a suicidal person. Standing up, I point to the Tower glimmering on the island. “You ever been up there? That where you got your suit?

            “No, haven’t- haven’t been up there yet. Looks cool from the outside though.”

            “There’s a bedroom there designed especially for me,” I divulge. “If he made you a suit it means two things: you’re useful in the field, and he wants you to be his friend. It’s generosity, but it’s also how he buys you. There’s an obligation that comes with his gifts. You’re officially a payrolled flatterer.”

            The boy swallows. “Doesn’t sound like that bothers you much”

            The visors over his eyes continues to glow in the failing light. “You know you’ve seen my face. At some point, “I nod at the Tower. “I’m going to see yours. I’m Ace.”

            We shake hands and I note the quality of the material.

            “I’m P-“

            “No, don’t tell me your name,” I knew it when you started talking, “you don’t know who I am yet.”

            “Right, sorry. So, but he’ll know you right? Like if I say I met someone named Ace he’ll know what I’m talking about.”

            I glance over the edge at traffic. “Just don’t make me sound suicidal. It’ll stress him out and he won’t hear anything you say after that. Get home to your aunt.”

            “Sure. Wait-”

            I teleport to the sidewalk below, wait until he sees where I went, then teleport out of sight.

           

            Tony isn’t at the compound and I don’t check the mansion. Instead, I have a drink and leave the tumbler on the counter. At the hotel I climb under the covers and prepare to lie awake for several hours. I don’t know what I’d even say to Tony. You shouldn’t have recruited a kid, you shouldn’t have taken him to Leipzig, that shouldn’t have been his introduction to the team. I examine my feelings for any signs of envy, any feelings of being replaced. Tony doesn’t replace, he just distracts himself from the empty space, doesn’t look at it, pretends it isn’t there or that it will fill itself. Peter Parker is just the latest distraction, not a fix. Operation Make Peter an Avenger so I don’t have to think about loneliness. It’s better than a woman a night and a drink between every breath. At least the kid’s sweet.

            Around 10pm Wade calls sounding dreary and in need of comfort. It’s only five over there, and with me out of the house he’ll have friends over later.

            “I’m cutting it short, “I say. “I’ll be home tomorrow night.”

            “Awesome sauce. I love you.”

            My jaw freezes, and I feel like someone’s ripped the covers off. “So, I’ll see you.”

            I hang up and go out onto the balcony with a joint I confiscated from a kid this morning. A woman on the street leans into her cupped palm to light her cigarette, and I steal the flame. It extinguishes before it reaches me, so I take each consecutive attempt before she throws the lighter on the ground and storms away. I pull the lighter up to me and light the joint.

            First exhale; I wonder what Coulson’s doing to recovers the stolen materials. They’ll find them again, some of them, before they’re utilized. Second exhale; who would know about hidden Chitauri debris? Urban mythology in New York is rife with murmurs of secret warehouses and ignorants with alien technology sitting on their mantelpiece, souvenirs that could kill or save us all. Third exhale; I touched a lot of that stuff, handed it over to gloved hands, watched it get sealed in airtight containers, the kind you see handcuffed to spies in movies. Weasel pestered me relentlessly about these details, brought me photos of Manhattan, London, and Puente Antiguo. He even emailed about the events in Missouri and Hong Kong, and I sent a mild virus in response. Hong Kong was not aliens.

            When I’m as close to high as my body will let me, I call my client’s intermediary and arrange tomorrow’s meeting.

            “I can’t finish this job for you.” I assess his poker face before continuing. “There are too many vigilantes, and I’m not interfering with their work. Whatever shit you’re up to, I’m not getting involved.”

            “The _Careta Fantasma_ is scared?” the unshaven, middle-aged man taunts.

            I hate that name. “No, _baboso,_ I’m not stopping these people from stopping you. Your freight will have to find its own way in.”

            “What about the mobs? You strike any of the deals we asked?”

            “Do I look like your agent?” I’m wearing my full garb in a crowded bar, but he is the only one who can see me. “Use my fee to grease whatever hands you want. Maybe you can even give them a taste of what you’re shipping in.”

            His boss doesn’t want to sell the alien metals, but maybe they’ll need an ally. Further search into his head shows he doesn’t know where the materials are being kept, what ship is bringing them in, nothing actually useful to me at all. But it isn’t drugs, commercial goods, or everyday automatics. It’s the same damned technology I stole, same unnamed employer, all heading for the island of Manhattan and the people working hard to protect it.

            Jumping to the compound, I find the tumbler I left still there, write a note on a napkin, and tuck it under the glass.  


	87. Chapter 87

It doesn’t take long for him to finally contact me in cyberspace. _How did you know about this?_

His user id brazenly contains “stark” as if that’s a security and not a challenge. I erase my tracks and leave him stranded.

We move again, back to California, passing through Tahoe in separate cars where I consider getting lost and reliving that day I spent there with Vince and our friends. I’d willingly sell the planet and everything on it to repeat that day over and over for eternity.

The exit grows smaller in my rearview, and I focus again on Wade’s driving of the moving truck, to things shaking inside, to his caterwauling to a country ballad.

            “It’s going to be Covergirl with you there,” Wade says after we’ve been moved-in for a month. “Normally I’d have Weas do the computer stuff, but apparently duct-taping people in their own house is against the law? Also, sometimes it’s a lady and sometimes ‘yo quiero Taco Bell’ is running around asking to get kicked and I know a lot of people who would do it and I wouldn’t blame them because those things are damn annoying...”

            Marijuana’s legal now, so I’m hoping that’s the reason he’s tolerable today. Clamping shut the passenger seat air vent I pull my knees to my chest and observe the Spanish Revival manors we’re passing. “This douche lives at the very end of a very long street.”

            Wade starts singing something supposedly inspired by my sentence, but it could also be a neuron misfiring.

            Something’s wrong as soon as we pull into the brick laid roundabout, a rose gold Porsche parked at an awkward angle blocking the way. Wade drives until our grill is an inch from the bumper and lays on the horn.

            “Wade, stop.” I pull his arm away.

            We get out. I notice a clay planter wobbled off its perch on a concrete step- the granulated black mark left by its foot is now exposed to the sun. The door is unlocked and I open it before Wade can jump through a window like he’d planned. He jumps through anyhow vociferously channeling Bruce Willis.

            There are no people in this house, but when I smell hours-old blood I grab Wade’s arm and shake my head. “Call the police.”

            “The Beverly Hills Cops? What if I call them twice and sing ‘Funkytown’ the first time?”

            He blusters on ahead of me. We came here to intimidate a bad guy into doing the right thing, however it seems someone else got to him first. Walking through the house I smell five people have been here recently; three female, one in pressed linen so probably the maid and hopefully absent.

            In the first opulent bedroom I find the bed is unmade. Wade’s animated conversation with himself suggests he’s found the owner of the house in another room- his two feminine bedmates are in the laundry room. There’s a laptop on the desk by the door which I use to manually erase the iniquitous photos we came here for. Wade will find the guy’s phone on him, and I’ll erase that too.

            A scraping sound behind me makes me freeze. Warily, I look over my shoulder.

            “In instances like these I ask myself,” Wade kicks something in another room, “‘What would Munch do?’ and the answer is always to cross over with another series. CSI: Hot Mamas.”

            For a moment, I notice no change, no movement. I walk forward, see nothing outside the sliding glass door, then notice a smudge in my periphery.

            “This is totally what I’m talking about,” he scratches his head with the muzzle of his gun, “I always get here too late to help anyone- god, I suck.”

            The smudge is tangled in an aquamarine bra, the lace straps caught between its toenails. With one foot it drags its nails across the glass door, nose bumping its faint reflection.

            “Found the phone, babe. Bitchin’ case- oh wait, wrong phone.”

            The tortoise pulls its tangled leg into its shell, trying to scrape the lace off, pinprick eyes never veering from the view. Disentangling it scares it further into its shell- it didn’t know I was present either. When it does unfold again, limbs freed, I slide the door open and watch it step triumphantly out onto the scorching patio.

           

Chilled air holds me in stasis as I stand in front of the open fridge, forgetting why I opened it or how long I’ve been standing here.

“Hey, you want takeout from that Korean hot dog place?” Wade leans his head over the back of the armchair. “Buy a stack of VHS on the way back, live it up old school.”     

            “No,” I remain where I am, “got a thing going down in an hour- might take all day.”

“M’kay, m’kay. Need any help?”

Another second passes before I close the door. “I’m good, thanks.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I need to do this myself.” I retrieve a flat backpack from the broom closet.

“That’s what people say in movies right before everything goes to shit.” He eyes the supplies I’m packing. He turns back to the TV. “You’re not going to tell me, that’s fine. I love you get back safe.”

            I grind my teeth. He’ll wedge declarations of love into any conversation to see how I react. Even now he’s peering his ear over his shoulder.

            “Hot dogs sound good. Can you go get them before I leave?”

The remote is tossed and he’s gone before I’m sure how he left. This mission is something I’ve thought about for a long time. It does not fall under the Accords and will be noticed by no one except the people it involves. An unguarded mind is the only way I know about tonight’s criteria and he’s dead now. If I’m being honest with myself, this mission scares me. Failure to any degree is not an option.

When I arrive, the girls school is asleep and undisturbed; I am early, a relief. If I do this right they won’t know what almost happened.

The compound is not large- three plastered buildings surrounded by a high iron fence. Thirty girls and four staff members sleep inside with a handful of stray dogs keeping placid guard outside. They do not bark when they sense me, just stiffen and cock their ears. I put it in their heads to bark if anyone else arrives. The path from school to mosque is well-tread, recently patterned by a myriad of goat hooves and is one of several paths leading from the school into town. I don’t know which direction the kidnappers will come from, so I study all of them.

A low _ruff_ from the back gate is my signal. Two simultaneous barks erupt from the front gate. I swallow, my heart beating fast, and teleport to the front gate from the courtyard. A man curses into his cell phone in Turkish; he was not told the gate would be padlocked. I laugh out loud by his ear, into the phone, making him shout. I drop him off somewhere frozen, distant, overseas, and shortly the man by the back gate joins him.

Eight more guys turn up and I ditch them in other places, but three…three cling to me and cry, beg, or pray. One is seventeen, taller and darker than I am, who covers his head like I might beat him, his language a collage of the other three I’ve heard tonight, using every tongue he knows to get his point across; he was forced to do this, he knows this is wrong, may god’s messenger have mercy on him.

If he was forced once, he’ll be forced again. If I slaughter his bosses, decimate their trafficking ring, and send him home it will still happen again. These girls won’t be safer when I leave than they were when I arrived.

Dropping the three beggars at their homes I find the homes of their memories no longer exist, and I kick myself for my stupidity. There is no family for these men to go back to. There are shelled hovels and shallow graves, or there is their mission. If they don’t fulfill it, they will be punished by other men, who answer to other men, who answer to some fat man somewhere making money off men of all colors and tongues.

For a sickening second, I see what Ultron, Hydra, and Magneto all saw. It’s easier to just wipe them out and start over.

There’s gunfire when I return to the school, shaking the night from the base of a stony hill behind the compound. Over the noise I hear someone shouting, “Bangbangbang. Bangbangbang.”

“I told you to stay home,” I shout. “How the hell did you follow me here?”

“Bang!” He puts down the last fleeing kidnapper. “You needed me. Don’t lie.”

I run past him up the hill. “They’ve got trucks on the other side, pick up a body.”

Wade shoots the drivers before I can stop him, and we put them in the trucks too. I tell him where to drive them then go back for the men I left in the worst climates. We leave them, shivering, with the trucks of dead men, and teleport back to the compound. Wade takes my arm.

“Babe, why didn’t you want to tell me?” He brushes a lock of hair out of my face. “Are they alright; the kids here?”

“All girls.” I lean into him to catch my breath, trembling from the frequent long-distance jumps. “They…they were…”

“They set the place on fire and catch the girls as they’re running out. I heard you. You broke a glass you were so pissed, cut your hand up.”

I drop to my knees screaming with rage. Wade yanks me back up and clamps a glove over my mouth. When we land on our feet at home I don’t let go. I cry. When I ask myself why I’m crying there is no answer, so I stop.

“I got the hot dogs,” prompts Wade. “We’ll put on something, Netflix and chill. Shiny?”

When I don’t respond he props me against the nearest wall and runs into the kitchen returning with takeout. We eat in bed while watching a ‘90s action flick, and halfway through I wrap myself around him and cry again.

“A-baby, what’s wrong? The acting’s not that bad.”

I pull the covers over myself, so he climbs under with me.

“Who am I, Wade? Who is this person? I don’t love myself anymore, I don’t love anything anymore. Why are you with me? You deserve so much better, so much…God, why am I fucking crying all the time? Why aren’t I nicer to you, why do I hurt people, how do I stop?”

“I- I don’t know, baby. Look at me, I’ve got nothing sorted out and I hurt people all the time. I just get drunk and blow things up when I’m sad. Why are you still with _me?”_

My chest feels like it’s holding back an ocean. “I trust you. You’re my good guy.”       

            His eyes shine in that way people’s do when they pity you so much you begin to pity yourself. He mumbles something as he wraps me in his arms and presses his face into my shoulder. I know he can’t fix me, and now he must know that I can’t fix him either.

            We have sex and when it’s over I feel heartsick, guilty, and like my muscles have been mangled in a taffy pull. I turn on the shower and sit down hiding my head in my arms, secure with the water running down my back. This is alright. You’re not alone. The man in the bedroom would kill for you, he loves you. Stop stressing out.

            I try to send my stress down the drain, clouding the water as it streams off my skin.

 

“The kids cleaned out an old terrarium we had in the barn, attached a heat lamp and put in half a clay pot. He seems happy. He likes broccoli.” 

            I smile at Laura’s positivity. “I couldn’t think of a better place to leave him. If he turns out to be a burden-”

            “Ace, he’ll be fine. Thank you. Oh, and Lila- without my permission- painted his toenails last night.” She snorts. “They’re the same shade as Clint’s old costume, I almost died laughing.”

            “Ugh, I keep hearing about this costume he won’t ever let me see. How’ve you been?”

            Laura makes a sound like a bored laugh. “On my feet 24/7. It’s hard being lonely with three kids, but...I guess that’s what I signed up for.”

            Worry scratches at the back of my brain. A small woman and three babies living alone in the country and all I left with them was a tortoise in a shoebox. “You contact me if you need anything. I know Clint left you my number.”

            “We’ll be fine, hon. You look out for yourself.”

            I’ve done enough of that. “I miss you guys. I’d come see you, but…my life’s kind of a mess right now. I don’t want you to feel that way on your end, so really if you need help I’ll drop everything and come out. Clint said we’re family, and that shouldn’t go one way.”

            I practically hear her smile in that warm, sisterly way she has. “Alright, Ace. I’ll call you if we need anything.”

            “Even if it’s groceries in a blizzard.”

            In the background I hear Lila ask who’s on the phone, and though Laura lies for me the request to talk to her daughter is on the tip of my tongue. I shouldn’t interact with kids, I rub off on them. But, I’m curious what a real kid is like. I don’t remember being one.

            Laura apologizes for the interruption just as I realize Lila asked “who” was on the phone and not if “dad” was on the phone.

“Is he safe, Laura? Is he…happy?”

            There’s a pause, I hear her turn away from the phone. Then, “Yes. He’s worried about you but he won’t say it. You ‘had a stick up your butt’ is how he phrased it.”

            At least he’s home. If she hasn’t been dragged in for questioning and they haven’t been searched, it means the house is still a secret and Tony- or whoever has sway right now- is keeping it that way. Meanwhile I have more than one enemy who wouldn’t think twice about coming down on the Bartons.

            “I’ve got to go, Laura. Give everyone a kiss for me. Tell him I said archery is stupid.”

            She groans in monotone. “Don’t stoop to his level, it just makes him harder to live with.”

            The call ends and I’m left thrilled to have spoken with someone I love and ashamed for continuing to lie to her. I continue the work I was doing when I called, analyzing capital I’ve scraped up from dead criminals and apportioning it out to their victims and other deserving parties. Sounds like the Bartons are financially sound, so I’ll check again after the next mission.

The person I don’t want to pay is my New York informer. She’s supposed to give me intel on vigilante and Avengers related happenings, but she’s gotten lazy lately. I’d fire her if she weren’t obviously a mutant- green bumps dapple her forehead like budding horns- and that no one else will hire her- she does have a rap sheet.

            Generally we meet at the Jersey end of the Holland tunnel so I don’t have to enter New York, but today she’ll only meet me in an abandoned school gymnasium in Brooklyn.

            “Two,” I put as little effort into emphasis as I can, “there are only two cocaine dealers in New York City.”

            Toya swallows. “Look, I don’t know what to tell you, I didn’t get out much this week.”

            “I pay you a journalist’s wage and don’t even require you to type this shit up. If you don’t want to work for me don’t, but you’re finding your next job on your own.”

            She presses her lips and looks sideways. “Yeah, look, I still need my cash.”

            “I don’t carry cash.”

            “C’mon, I says to bring it with you.”     

            “And I said tell me who’s selling coke and you gave me two names.”

            “Just hand me something man, a smoke if you got’em.”

            I lean away from the structural pole I have guarding my back. “Why do you need-”

            “Hey, I’m sorry, man.” Her hand juts at my midriff, and I recoil from the attack. There’s nothing in her hand, but she clasps it like she’s holding something.

            I’m forced backward and Toya runs. Webbing plasters my elbow to the pole, and I groan internally. Why do I help people?

            “Gotta admit,” the kid shouts as he swings in through the crumbling ceiling, “I thought you’d be a lot harder to catch.”

            “Don’t keep your hopes up.” I test my muscles beneath the webbing. “She’s terrified of spiders, did you take advantage of that?”

            “She is? Oh. Well, hang tight, the authorities are on their way.”

            “New York’s Corruptest? I’ll leave them a doctor’s note. Oh crap,” I glance over his shoulder at the windows, “Iron Man’s here too?”

            The kid pivots on a dime, and I turn invisible and phase out of the webbing.

            “Oh, c’mon,” he shouts, “that’s such an old trick. Let’s try again, two out of three, loser has to explain themselves to the cops.”

            I have to talk to Tony and would rather do it in person. Hell, I’d rather talk this kid face-to-face than have these stupid masks on. “Is your name Peter?”

            He jerks his head in the direction of my voice, mechanical eyes narrowing. “No. You’re close though, it has an ‘e’ in it.”

            I laugh from the other side of the gym, jerking his head around again. “Is it Parker?”

            He shoots webbing exactly at the spot I was just standing in, clicks his tongue when it misses, and confirms that he or the suit has heightened senses.

“I don’t want trouble with you,” I say.

            “No, but trouble follows you,” as his eyes follow my voice. “Why do you need to know about drugs?”

            “I don’t.” Daredevil’s tried to put a stop to the cocaine trade several times and I thought I could help. “I’m leaving now.”

            “Ah, wait, can I just get a pic of you to prove-”

            “Go home and finish your homework.”

            “Finished it, this is just extra credit.”

            I tilt my head. “Don’t try so hard to impress people. Get too invested you’ll end up a washout at twenty-five. Watch yourself, Parker.”

I teleport home to a packed house, my door ajar as Wade’s housewarming party gets loud. Cursing for the sake of it, I dress down to jeans and a t-shirt and check my messages. There’s a missed call from someone on my protection list, an old classmate who needs a favor. I’ve been once before, but it was a false alarm, she said she was alright.

            I speak softly to her boyfriend in a low voice, still gripping a fistful of matted hair. He’s hazy from drink and pills, so I have to repeat myself to get his attention.

“Hey, look at me. Look at me,” I show him my bloody fist, “I just hit you across the face didn’t I? It was really easy, wasn’t it?  Do you see that girl over there?”

            He nods blearily at Mildred.

“I will beat the living shit out of you if you ever touch her again. Do you understand?”

            He’s drifted off again. I bruise his head against the wall once and raise my voice. “What did I just say?”

            “Iff eye ‘urt ‘er agin…iff eye...”

            “I’ll hurt you worse. Is that clear?”

            He nods. I let go. Mildred watches with blank, watery eyes; her fat lips tremble. I don’t offer to help her up. If she wants to sit in garbage watching a mutt drool, let her.

            “He gives you trouble again, you run.” I wait till she looks me in the eye. “You _run_. Doesn’t matter who sees.”

            Her eyes drop like blinds to her pale legs, and she holds her lip with both front teeth.

            The lidded tea kettle of the indoors melts away as I slog through the overgrown front lawn. The car upholstery melds with my skin as I lean into the seat and turn on the ignition. No gas, as usual. I’ve just enough to crawl into a service station and haggle with the Indian cashier over how much they owe me in lost time waiting for the pump to squeeze out ten dollars worth of refined dinosaur remains. I get one dollar back and forget the cold drink, too pissed to spend a little pride as well.

            Pulling into the warehouse parking lot I see Wade’s party isn't over yet, and pull through the lot to the exit.

            At another station I fill the tank to its limit and buy that drink before getting on I-5 and piddling up the Central Valley. It takes me an hour before I figure out why both cashiers were looking at me funky. I haven’t yet washed Drew’s blood off my hand or forehead where I wiped away sweat.

            Boring, irrelevant memories trample back and forth through my mind and I turn on the radio. Five minutes of skipping stations reminds me that I hate public radio, and my fingers are on the dial when a piano note hums.  

Tires skid in the gravel- other drivers curse from passing cars- as I veer off the shoulder and kiss the concrete barrier. I hold my breath for the rest of the song.

            Around midnight I ease off a winding country highway in the middle of pastureland. There’s a low breeze and a smattering of stars to counteract the bright lights of the airbase not five miles away. I walk into the stiff yellow grass, collecting stickers in my shoelaces, sit down in a crumbly patch of dirt, and focus my eyes on the dark mass of rock below me on the hill.

That song played when Vince drove me to these nameless hills. I try to imagine I’m lying in a Subaru Outback with my bare feet tingling in the breeze and a warm arm across my chest. I let the memory do its worst until the lights of the base blur and my knees are damp with saltwater.

            Wade won’t realize until a day from now that I’m not coming back.

 


End file.
